Big Northern girl goes down

Mama's gonna get real for a sec

2012-01-07T21:13:00.000-06:00

Yo peoples.

mama has been doing the thinkings about the art & the body & shame & identity & sex & pseudonyms & ethics & ...

in the indie liternets small world there has been a huge controversy about Marie Calloway & how she outed a guy with a girlfriend as a cheater & how wrong she was cos she used his real name (at first) & what about his girlfriend, did she even think about her humiliation (& if I were his girlfriend I would a) want to know, b) resist the shaming/humiliation - it's not her fault the dude's a creepy creeper, and c) revel in the public opinion that my now ex-boyfriend is a dick), etc, etc. & yeah, she shouldn't have used his real name & yeah I know I've said, why are people even talking about this but the attitudes that mama perceives surrounding the subject have been eating away at mama... these attitudes reveal, to mama, that a lot of writers in the American "indie" lit scene value very gendered and very safe art. Safe especially when it comes to women.

& you all are like, Oh no mama, why'd you have to go there?

& you all are like, well, except for a couple of you who have the vaginas (but not all of you with the vaginas & mama just actually wanted to say "the vaginas") and/or have overcome society's gendering to think about gender, are all like, that's it, mama, we out.

that's cool, yo. mama'll get back to the deep penetratings & away from the deep thoughts soonsoon... come back tomorrow or the next day.

it seems to me that women can write about sex in the indie lit world if they are self-depreciating, if they feel shame about their bodies and their wants, if, when they desire they also feel bad about themselves, if when they break social norms, they are aware of this and self-flagellate with words & hairshirts. yeah, calloway does this in her story, but she accompanied her "story" with a picture of her face covered in dude's cum... which could be read as self-depreciating but mama sees it as celebratory: look, i just fucked dude and look, i've got proof... plus, it definitely breaks a social norm. sperm's not usually put on display, yo (but maybe it should be, maybe that'd help demystify the whole sex/phallus thing for a lot of peeps).

mama's not here to be a champion of calloway's story or her blog or her "indiscretion" or whatever, tho. mama's here to investigate the reaction to her and her story and women's sexuality in general in the indie lit world. there have been the blog posts and the circling of the wagons. mama feels a new puritanism & is waiting for a burn witch burn.

part of the reason the reaction to calloway has been so visceral from women writers may be cos she embodies & even reveals their deepest fears: that many of the American indie men writers do not take them seriously & only like their writing cos they are hot, or that they will never win the hearts of the indie lit scene because they are not hot and/or not young. it reveals to them how much the indie lit scene is just a microcosm of America itself (and this realization, to many intelligent talented women, can feel like a betrayal). as a woman, if you are not young & beautiful, you have no value, still, in this enlightened age (unless you are old & still somehow hot but mama doesn't want to tread in milf/cougar waters right now). you could be the wisest, kindest, most talented person ever but if a man does not wanna stick his dick in you, you still have no worth in a patriarchal society. word. (& mama does not mean to be a downer or heteronormative, yo.) this can result in unconscious jealousy or anger in some women, and mama's been there, so who can blame them? mama has felt this jealousy & mama has also experienced this unconscious jealousy that manifests itself as professional condescension; it's the same as other grad students spreading the rumor you're getting good grades cos you're hot & not cos you worked your ass off (& not on a pole or on the prof's desk or anything like that, my little pervs).

other things i have been thinking in conjunction with this controversy is the use of pseudonyms... yes, mama uses a pseudonym and, believe it or not, mama herself is a persona (really, mama, really?). mama uses a pseudonym not to hide or cos she's afraid she'll hurt anyone she knows with her art or cos she's ashamed of writing about the body/sex/the raunch/the blue/the cunt/the cock, but cos when she first started writing, there was another writer with her name already writing & mama didn't want to compete. plus, mama wanted a gender neutral name to get her over those transoms initially. those transoms are high & narrow & hard to get through, yo. mama's family knows her writing & mama's not ashamed that they know. if they cannot deal with the body & the sex of mama's writing, then how have they had the childrens? why do they have the childrens? there are all sorts of love and all sorts of sexuality & all sorts of identity & to narrow love & sex & identity down into one or two categories inhibits people to really know themselves & to really find love & happiness. mama thinks the taboo body needs to be celebrated; that the sacred and the profane are actually the same. mama thinks about the writers with pseudonyms who have the fake names cos they don't want to offend their family or friends: why are you writing then if you are worried that you are going to offend someone with your ideas? why are you writing about sex if you are afraid you are going to offend someone with your writings about sex? what is art if it's safe and doesn't make anyone uncomfortable, or at least think and question?

so, what mama's trying to say is mama hates the censorship, especially when it comes to identity & sexuality (and by sexuality, mama means whatever gets you off as long as it's with your own consent - masturbation, or another adult's or other adults' consents, yo), & especially when it's girl on girl censorship. get over your initial reaction to "Adrien Brody," and think about why you are feeling so pissed off at calloway & not at dude whatever his name is... but, if you're over that already (that was so, like, 2 weeks ago), think about how censoring yourself in the name of propriety is another way of creating safe art. think about how women's sexuality is being represented in the indie lit community. think about how women police each other's behavior/writing and why. think about what art means to you. think about it all & if you have any questions, mama's gonna make an afterschool special & maybe include a money shot, yo.

yours,
mama

Goodwill for all & secondhand your new year, yo

2012-01-02T22:07:00.000-06:00

so mama's gonna keep to her traditions, yo. mama's gonna follow some kind of convention & tell you all what she learned in this year of our not sucklord (asswipe your own tp, yo) aught-elevens...

1. YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THREE SISTERS

YO.

2. Some eds are better than others:

For reals. The editors at Honest Publishing Press are, like mama's told manymany folks, the bestest. They are beyond niceynice. Where other presses think it's all the writers job to market market (& mama could tell you a story about a press who almost dropped one of their writers due to marketing concerns, but mama ain't gonna kickstart up no old controversies), these awesomest blokes have been doing the brainstorming & the buzzbuilding for their writers. Big shout out & luvs!

3. Big big titties, squee!

Mama's next novel has the bigbig titties; they are all like Tantalus's grapes yo, hanging heavy and low, you can look but you can't touch. Just like dominatema says. Mama also says, pee or I'll beat you...

4. You can't teach an old trucker how to sit on one of those rings or how not to eat the fried foods or how to listen to Nina Simone or how not to try to invite mama back into his cab when all he's got to offer is turkey jerky, Goldshlager, toe suckings, & no cock.

5. Count mama in as one of the peeps who wants real change.

6. There is sex and there is art. There is art in sex. There is sex in art. Mama likes sex & art. A lot. Sexy artings. Arty sexings. Millions and millions xs a million mama likes.

7. Mama's gonna bring back the term "blue" for things peeps might find offensive. In this interview, Horror Sleaze and Trash asked mama if she thought "worry, fret, and irritation" were purposeless emotions. Mama said no, but mama should've added she thinks shock and outrage about sex between consenting adults or about dirty words is purposeless.

8. All you all feeling the shocks & outrages over the blue literatures, get over yourselves & get laid, yo.

Word,

mama

i wants a grand gesture

2011-12-30T10:33:00.000-06:00

i've been waiting for the grand gesture.

& you all are probably like, oh mama, really? really? well, the ones who care about mama. or the ones who don't like drama. or the ones who don't like to see peeps self immolate in a combustion of semi fumes & self loathing, yo.

mama's been waiting for a trucker to show up with boombox aloft or his beaded seat cover cut out in the form of mama cos he wants to be close to mama so close or melty chocolatey soy ice cream & some rope & a peony or a stainless steel retro toaster & sliced bread or even just some goddamned toast...

no one ever brings mama toast.

or a pinball machine where the trucker's scored all the top scores & instead of his initials put in 4Mama or just him naked on my rents' weedy front lawn with a tattoo of him & mama fucking on his cock or a tatt of mama's pussy on his hand so he can think about mama as he rubs it out incessantly cos he is not near mama...

or he drives his semi up unto mama's alabama front lawn & stops just at the edge of her porch & he jumps out & it is so blue all around & mama's up from her glider & mama's dropped her whiskey jug & mama's wearing a slip & nothing else & she gots big sunglasses on & the trucker grabs her off his porch & crushes him to her & says something good like, beat me, or, i want some bruises, or i've missed your tits, or, i'll leave my mark all over you.

mama's been waiting at love's truck stop.

mama's hungry & they do not have toast.

mama's in a dark mood

2011-12-15T00:08:00.000-06:00

& mama's trying not to go to her dark place. that's why mama's staying clear of the bathtub gins & the root cellar vodkas & the underthefrontporch whiskeys, yo.

one of the things that makes mama the happies is thinking about the imaginative potential in every human being. i know, right? when did mama become such a fucking hippie?

mama ain't no hippie cos mama likes the bathings even if it's in the bathtub gins sometimes.

mama ain't no hippie cos patchouli smells like mildewed patchwork quilts set on fire.

mama was the asshole that set your patchwork quilt on fire, yo.

here is a link to mama's confessions of patchwork quilt immolations.

not really. it is a link to a post on her gracious editors' website where she supports the Occupy Movement & tells you, why.

suckers.

yours,
dark mama

Homegirl!: The Hearts & Guts Tour, yo

2011-11-10T07:14:00.001-06:00

oh dear bloggy, so glad to have you back! mama'll stop watching her stories & sit with you on her porch in the early albamaz sun & we'll watch the little chilluns wait for school buses & we'll watch squirrels drunk on fermented jack o lanterns spin like disco balls.

once the disco balls collapse then mama'll know it's time to go, yo.

two stops coming up on the Hearts & Guts Tour!!

1. 11/11/11 = Fairmont, WV
mama'll be reading excerpts from Homegirl! at Fairmont State University at 5:30 in the Folklife Center. mama's never been to a Folklife Center before. mama's gonna feel so cultured. word.

2. 11/12/11 = Hudson, NY

From The Outlet:

OnSaturday, November 12th, Chloe Caldwell will kick-off the HudsonRiver Loft Reading Series in her home in Hudson, New York. The readingwill feature “Twelve diverse authors” who “will read poetry, essays andexcerpts from their books. There will be wine and there will be beer and therewill be socializing and there will be books for sale.”

Readerswill include: Daniel Nester, Sean H. Doyle, Chloe Caldwell, Stacy Pershall,Danielle Winterton, Ryder Collins, Mira Ptacin, Matthew Savoca, Kendra GrantMalone, and Eric Wybenga.

mama's got problems, but a book ain't one

2011-11-06T13:41:00.000-06:00

it was just mama's birthday & mama gots the reading swag, yo.

these are the books/litmags: Gregory Sherl's Heavy Petting, Jenny Boully's Not merely because of the unknown that was stalking toward them, Johannes Goransson's Entrance to a colonial pageant in which we all begin to intricate, David Rose's Vault: An Anti-Novel, Barge Journal (who are the cool eds: Shawn & Justin Maddey and Christine McInnes, and cool layout ed: Hallie Romba), Front & Centre (another cool ed, Matthew Firth), and Thomas Patrick Levy's Please Don't Leave Me Scarlett Johansson.

mama spent the last hours of her 3 day bday festivities in a moonshine bathtub as the party rocked around her and read Barge Journal. it is the good stuffs. it is so full of the good stuffs; it is like the inside of a teddy bear all full of plushy good stuffs. check out Paul Kavanagh's "China," and Zdravka Evtimova's "The Brandy Maker," and Travis Blackenship's "excerpts from They Burn You" and then everything else in this journal cos your eyes will be tired and the moonshine fumes will make you dizzy but you will want to read on all spinning dizzy from the words and the way the words make you feel more alive and tingly than moonshine or sex even.

& mama recuperated with Johannes Goransson's Entrance to a colonial pageant in which we all begin to intricate. & it was like Genet and it was not like Genet and it was like and it was not. it was like toast & it was better than toast, yo. it blew the empire apart. it blew shit up in my heart. read it now.

mama'll be reading the rests soonsoon. glitterjesus & i can't wait, yo.

luvs,
mama

birthday bonuses & breasts, yo

2011-11-06T13:04:00.001-06:00

here is a link to breasts courtesy of my sister, yo...

if you thought mama was gonna flash her sisters' titties you got problems.

this is the shit

2011-11-03T21:01:00.000-05:00

that i promised you all a while ago: pix & dicks from mama's tour

these photos are all from or on the way away from mama's first stop, yo, in springfield, mo. that first stop was set up courtesy of one Tracey Parker (who has a very cool etsy store, for reals) and one Lil Olive, owner of Good Girl Art Gallery. Here is a photo-journal of it all... (mama hasn't yet taken a pic of the little wooden baby hand with a screw attached that the dentist gave her...mama is not stringing words together here to demonstrate the absurdity of life; this was one of the highlights, yo but it wasn't squalid & it wasn't mama puking in an alley or falling in love & getting her heart busted or someone falling in love with mama & getting his or her heart walked all over with big motherfucking boots or something muchmuch worse, like what happens to Homegirl or Richboy or Punkboy or even the bartender with the birdlike hands...)

glitter jesus showed up for the reading...

mama stayed with tracey parker, aka trailer parker, aka baby, aka little edie 2

here is grey gardens. it is beautiful. mama misses it so:

& the road back to the alabamaz:

& another road shot cos mama heard the road narratives are hot or something

here is some peace and sanctity:

of course, mama grabbed that glitter jesus & mama took that glitter jesus on home, yo that sanctity is a wtf sanctity & why am i here sanctity & existential sanctity...:

& a should glitter jesus read Homegirl! existential sanctity:

& glitter jesus does:

& glitter jesus continues to readeth:

the end:

yours,
ryder

fetishes yo

2011-10-16T00:09:00.001-05:00

hey peeps. i know i promised the book tour bloggy post but mama's been sidetracked by the Occupy & wishing she were there & fantasizing about running from the law with a balaclavaed anarchist & then he & mama lose the nightstick waving nypd & then we're in an alley & the alley has a chainlink fence & mama doesn't have to tell you what'll be going on up against that chainlink fence...

mama thinks one of her fetishes might be balaclavaed anarchists. they pop up in all her stories & even her novel. she has balaclavaed babies running & smashing & laughing in her dreams & up at Abjective (rip dear litmag) & soon to be in barge.

another might be garage doors. or chainlink fences.

mama's not gonna go all deep on her fetishes tho, like remittance girl's deep & insightful post. remittance girl is a writer of the erotic & she thinks hard & long about this stuff. she writes about the fuckings while mama writes about the fucked-up.

if you know mama or if you've read Homegirl!, you know that's not completely true, either...

mama's friends w remittance girl on the tweets & mama really admires rg's post, yo. mama's also friends w other writers & one of them twitted about how if you're a writer you shouldn't front about the alcohols, that drinking does not make you cool...

mama's afraid she fetishizes the alcohols. she's always telling you to get her a highball. she's drinking a manhattan right now. she loved bukowski when she was twenty. she loved mickey rourke for barfly. & she still loves barfly. sometimes for fun she runs through cornfields & steals the green corns. sometimes for fun she reads highball recipes on the interwebs. she's codenamed every one of her exes for some kind of highball.

the last one was the salty dog & the one before the dark & stormy.

now mama's getting all racisty.

boo.

but the one she'll always love is buck's fizz.

mama has no idea what that means & mama can also get behind others' fetishes sometimes. even when she doesn't get them. glitter, for instance.

or glitter jesus.

mama was gonna inventory the reoccurring tropey fetish things from her writings but this manhattan's her second & now all mama can think about is the anarchist & the chainlink fence & mama's got his balaclava off & he's doing things to mama that are better without the balaclava...

unless you gots a wool fetish.

& mama'll leave you with this, yo.

yours,
ryder

Book tour stop numero one

2011-10-07T23:21:00.002-05:00

yo.

mama just had her first book tour stop.

mama'll get back to you tomorrow with highlights & pix cos she is still reveling in the weird awesomenesses of it.

yours,
ryder

Call me on my bullshit

2011-10-01T23:58:00.001-05:00

cos mama knows she gots it. everybody gots the bullshit. so if you think mama needs to be called on it, then go for it.

& then mama'll say, heard.

& then mama might change.

& that's what the US needs to do now. & that's what all the complacent peoples who think, yes, I understand why the 99% are insecure or upset but I've gots a job & I'm healthy & I gots no worries & I'm a productive member of society, unlike those other peoples...

you could lose your job, just like that

you could get sick

you could

mama's thinking about leaving her sunny porch in the bamaz. mama's thinking.

& those of you who are saying America's too stupid to get it. Well, if they only get fed one perspective then they're not stupid, yo...

this is a picture of some of the 700+ peoples trapped on the Brooklyn Bridge today:

this is a pic of a young girl arrested on the bridge today:

which one might scare grandpa & grandma, & which pic do you think yahoo ran today?

yours,
mama

finally someone at the giants gets real

2011-10-01T08:43:00.001-05:00

about the Wall Street Protest & what's going down in the US today

thank you, Mike Young.

yours,
mama

a book is not a baby rehash

2011-09-29T23:48:00.003-05:00

i was talking to my eds (via email cos my eds live in the UK & mama lives in the South) & i ♥ my eds cos they care about art & artists & the state of the world but they're not all pedantic & shit, yo, plus they published mama's novel, which means they rock on top of that. anyway... they suggested an alteration to the book is not a baby contest

recap:
in the original, mama wanted you to like her book more than you liked other people's babies. maybe mama shouldn't have called attention to the fact that peeps never like your babies as much as you do... my bad, yo. mama also stated she'd give away a free copy of Homegirl! to the 100th person who liked her book on FB.

now:
mama's eds have suggested that mama do a random drawing of all the likers of Homegirl! once the likes = 100.

so:
~~baby = book~~ = Homegirl! likers < 101, but > 99, = free book giveaway to any of the book-likers, yo!

here is the link in case you didn't get it: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Homegirl/201060176620513

lovs from the bottom of my baby♥,
ryder

Hashtag: Occupy Writing

2011-09-28T17:31:00.000-05:00

So, I have been following the Occupation of Wall Street from the safety of my home office. As I graded student essays this weekend, I clicked between essays and websites, looking for information about the protests; I wanted to see who was covering it and what they were saying. I clicked on HTMLGIANT and We Who Are About to Die as well, because I like to read their posts on what's going on in the independent literary world and in art and their takes on the intersection of literature and art with US society today... & I have been thinking about the reactions to these protests and protesters, and what most disturbs me is the non-reactions...

I thought the Giant might do something like this, at least:

I'm not trying to pick on the Giant or WWAATD, but their silence on these protests left me questioning, why? Why do the writers and commenters of the Giant bemoan a society where the bottom line is money, where art is not valued for art's sake (whatever that is), but for how much money it makes, yet do not even acknowledge a social event that has the potential to disrupt this corporatization bottom-lining of the US? That has the potential to disrupt the value systems that says only this (take your pick: bestsellers, new shoes, Lexus, mcmansions, American Apparel, etc.) is important because it reflects how much you are worth. That equates the number of books sold to the worth of the art. That says there is no place for cutting-edge, avant-garde, or experimental writing (or art) outside the academy (or even in, sometimes...)? That says there is no place for poetry?

Forgive me, if my thoughts are jumbled or if I come across as too earnest and not ironic enough... I'm not trying to attack the online independent literary community. I consider myself a member; I write and I publish online and I enjoy very much the discussions on the big lit blogs. I am just wondering, like Lily Hoang did during the Egyptian uprisings (& yes, I know this occupation is much smaller, but it is spreading...), why a lot of the writers seem to be saying nothing about Occupy Wall Street. There have been a few: The Rumpus has been keeping an "Occupy Wall Street Round-up" and Tao Lin tweeted this:

Why does the online presence of the independent literary community seem so complacent? Is it because we're all jaded? Too cynical? Too worried about legitimacy and authority so we don't want to be linked to "hippies" and "gutter punks" and "optimists" and those pilots(!) because then no one will take our art seriously?

Mama's thinking we all need to re-examine our roles as writers. I'm not saying we have to write political works or anything... I'm just saying when we live in a society that devalues art, we should definitely consider supporting people who want to change the things that perpetuate this devaluation. I'm not trying to create a manifesto here. I am trying to say, as writers, we need to observe and we need to think and we need to interact and we need to make art and we need to acknowledge, in our communities, the possibilities of change.

To quote the last line of a blog post by Christopher Newgent (about the BlazeVox "controversy") that was linked through the Giant: "You have to stop believing that this is 'thereality of poetry publishing.' Because it’s not. Because even if it is, itdoesn’t have to be. Stand up."

As part of the writing community, I suggest we widen this sentiment to: You have to stop believing that this is “thereality of the US.” Because it’s not. Because even if it is, itdoesn’t have to be. Stand up.

Internet Poetry do not be hating or feuding me

2011-09-27T21:19:00.000-05:00

cos mama just wants to share this tweetered poem tout suite & mama doesn't know how to share the jing links cos mama's lucky she hasn't lost fingers or blown up entire acres making her mash moonshines, yo

A book is not a baby: Homegirl! giveaway

2011-09-17T20:45:00.001-05:00

So mama's on twitter cos that's the newfangled way to know when the ATF's coming for the backyard still. & mama sits on her porch with her shotgun and her jug and her beastyhounds & it is hot & it is hard to read the screen & mama's got one of those convertible laptops with a keyboard & touchscreen & sometimes she hits the screen with her drunk fingers accidentally and then she's watching the porns on her front porch so she doesn't even notice the chilluns playing some kind of chillun game all over her lawn. She doesn't even run them off.

Mama's almost hit 100 followers on twitter & she doesn't know if she should be sad that she has so few followers or happy that she has so many or all existential that it doesn't really matter either way. She's leaning towards the existential, yo. If mama didn't have a book out she loved like a baby, mama'd be sitting on that porch with her houndybeasts & her weapons & her jug & no twitter and no facebook and no bloggy and okay, yeah, probably some kinda porn or at least her stories...

Mama loves her book like a baby tho mama knows a book is not a baby. Maybe mama doesn't know this, maybe mama just thinks she knows this... but mama knows she can bring her book into a bar & accidentally leave it there & it will still exist & she will not be charged with negligence. Mama can leave her book on top of the car or in the middle of the fucking road, yo...

& mama's baby's already been gestated & nurtured. & mama's baby won't grow up not to love her or be all creepycreepy dependent wanting to call every day and wanting mama to wash their clothes & comb their hair & tuck their shirts in to their underwears still...Mama's book'll never call her a cunt & mama'll never hafta exert herself to shove the ivories soaps into metalbraces mouths. Mama'll never hafta play niceynice with her babydaddy's family even after she heard them talking about how between her moonshines & her masturbations they were tots surprised she wasn't blind.

What mama's trying to get at, in her roundabout alabamaz stills-induced way, is that she wants you to like her book. She wants you to like her book more than you like someone else's baby. In fact, she will give away a copy of her book-baby to the 100th person that likes the Homegirl! page on the facebooks... (mama'll be tot checking that shit, but in case her fingers drunkenslip again, be sure to comment here or post on her fb wall if you are #100). So far, there are about 40 people who like it... so if you wanna be all sneakysneaker & like it now and then wait til it gets up to 99 & unlike & then like, well mama's distracted easily by the whiskeys & the drunkenslips & the stories & the lizards crawling across her house walls.

yours all existential & shit,
ryder

this is my new obsession

2011-09-15T22:08:00.002-05:00

Fuck me like fried potatoes.

why is this "bad"

2011-09-14T15:06:00.001-05:00

i think it is awesome. better than velvet elvises any day, yo.

thanks, you up against the garage doors of the world peoples

2011-09-12T21:35:00.001-05:00

mama wants to thank all the people, influences, supporters, friends of Homegirl!:

HonestyPublishingPress:ChrisDanielBogdan,SleepSnortFuck:ChloeCaldwell,Juked:JohnWang,BastardsandWhores:AmandaandJoe,Fixitbroken:GregDybek,TheMethLab:NewambaFlamingoandFrankieMetro,FreakyFountainPress:CatherineLearyandRobinWolfe,StaciaMFleegalandDanNowakforfeedingmamathegoodfoods&forreadingthedrafts,TheSugarcubes,JeanGenet,TraceyParker,GoodGirlArtGallery,Tubesocks,HenrideToulouseLautrec,Bukowski,spittyprofessorswithfakeaccents,TommotherfuckingWaits,yo,bowling,TheB52s,52/250,CometCafebeforeitwasarestaurantfeaturedondiners,driveins,&diveswaybackwhenwhentheonlypeopledrinkingtherewasthestaff&smartpeepswithflasks,PABSTmotherfuckingBLUERIBBON,sexting,balaclavaedanarchists,NeilYoung,grindercore,ThomasPynchon(notreallybuthedoesgetamentionbutsodoesSlayer),sexings,wreckingballs,Texaswhorehouses,veganBenedicts,BreathlessCaddyshackForKeepsTeenageMutantNinjaTurtles,theexMarine,moleskines,poorboys,JeanPaulSartre,PlannedParenthood,divebars,Riverwest,thewhiskeys,danandstacia'scoffeetable(notreallyaninfluencebutthanksforthememories),mangosteens,repressionrepressionrepressionrepression,SidandNancy,merrywidows,callingmyselfmama(reallyhasnothingtodowithitbuti'mobsessed),babies,unbabies,babyishthings,unbabyishthings,garagedoorsbutnotgaragedooropenerscostheywouldinterferewithupagainstthegaragedoorsoftheworld,toodrunktofuck(thesong,duh,mamadon'trolllikethat,yo),peanutbuttersandwiches,bartenderswipingdryhighballglassesonsnowynightsthatmakethewindowsallfoggyinside,frogsandcatsandbighearts,meta,glocks,glockenspiels,punkboys,yo.

there are probably manymany more but mama doesn't wanna give it all away the first time; even mama likes to keep a couple tricks in reserve...

mama will thank you, too, if you like Homegirl!

yours full of thanky-thanks,

ryder

Pre-order mama's novel, yo

2011-09-06T22:01:00.000-05:00

Homegirl!'s about to drop & you can get in on all the familyfungoodness at amazon

okay, there is no familyfungoodness in mama's novel unless you count 1980s genderneutral fragrances, braces, fathers with addictions a la cheever, & bowling in the darkness...

etcetera etcetera

& mama forgot to mention she's going touring with Homegirl!

here is one stop

mama's tour is gonna be all wonky; mama's tour's gonna be all askew; mama'll drive & drive with books & bourbon & the lines'll waver & the lines'll be crossed & mama'll pass out after the show & she'll wake up with her face plastered to the acknowledgments page & her tongue divining fortunes for all around her...

it will be real. it will be good.

so get in on the action quickquick & pre-order that good shit now cos mama's possibly coming to a town near you & she's gots the penchants for the good lits & the making-outs & the falling downs & the making-outs again & the goggling & the googling & the grog & the punkboys rocking & garage doors & all of us ups against the world, yo

yours,
ryder

a blog is a strange thing

2011-09-04T23:07:00.001-05:00

& this blog is feeling existential-crisisy cos what is a blog & what is this blog & what does this blog wanna be let alone who is this blog's audience & where does this blog fit in with all the other litbloggies out there who are barking louder & pissing harder & are in heat ...

mama was gonna write a letter to the independent lit peoples of the US

mama was gonna somehow acronym them to lic but mama forgot how..

& lic is in a tiz cos of the blazevox but if you read the giants, you know all about it

& mama holds no ill will against anyone, not lic (let's go beyond the speed-datings - the in-out, in-out in < 5 minutes; that was gonna be in my letter to you), not blazevox, and not the giants. only the truckers who offered her a cab & whips & cheez whiz & only gave her the cheez whizs or maybe even just gave her an empty jar or a urine jar

& mama's not trying to deceive with the pictures of her book... it's not for sale, yet, smurfs & smurfettes... mama will let you know

you will probly get sick of mama letting you know, if you haven't already. or maybe you want mama to let you know more and more and school you already; you're all like, mama, i know you sit there on your porch in the alabamaz sun with your bourbons & shotgun but you were probly a schoolmarm b4 the rents had to sign for the spankings... do you still have the paddle, yo?

& feisters, did you think that was a pic of mama's book on her kitchen counter in mama's last posty? did you think mama'd have flowered wallpaper or a froggy oven mitt? or wallpaper or oven mitts? or even a kitchen?

yo.

mama went to the Decatur Book Festival yesterday, tho, & even tho she doesn't have oven mitts or a kitchen counter, she met a lot of nice peoples... some very nice people were at the Vouched table, for reals.

cos mama does not blow the smoke up the asses; but if you want a fist there just ask...

luvs,
mama

Cava in a jelly jar times...

2011-09-01T20:19:00.000-05:00

But when isn't it, yo?

Here is what Homegirl! will look like after you purchase it and unwrap it from the its dull packaging (if you buy it, but, hey, no pressure, mama'll still love ya...
maybe.)

The editors at Honest Publishing Press fucking rock! So does the cover artist, Nick Thompson. Mama'll drink the cavas to these blokes across the ocean. They may be sleeping now; they may have cava dreams all crisp and sparkly and jelly-jarry. Or they might be at work. Or playing rugby or eating chips. Mama gots no sense of time differentials... but she do know a good-looking book when she sees one.

Just like she can spots the good-looking mens way down the dirt road from her front porch in the direct alabamas sunlight...

MMMMMMM...

Yours,
ryder

i heart you all, even you pythagoras

2011-08-31T22:41:00.000-05:00

& i am trying so hard not to call myself mama too much + i am trying so hard not to steal pix from the interwebs x i am waiting on pix from a guy you don't know / the number of penis pix on my cell phone + my age - my salary + the # of times my heart has been brokenheartedness / the # of literary cool kids who've stopped by my blog x the turk's circumference - e. said's disapproval of what he thinks is mama's exoticism x the second the lit cool kids were here + the # of sweatbeads drip-dropped down mama's boot at mayhem x the # of heavy-metallers who head-banged & puked / by your dispapproval of mama / by your disapproval of mama's choice of words / by your dispapproval of mama's choice of words & the arrangings of them - mama's hatred of false humility

=

yo

+

for reals

+

yours foreverever (foreverever?)

These people are the nicey-nicest

2011-08-29T12:50:00.000-05:00

I want to send big big heart things to the fab four writers who have written such nice things about Homegirl! : Stacia M. Fleegal, J.W. Wang, Dan Nowak, and Chloe Caldwell. They said such nice things; they make mama blush & drink the tanquerays & fan herself with one of those old-fashioned paper fans you get at a funeral except her fan is actually the pastor's boxers & you don't wanna know how mama got em...

Here are their nicer than nicey-nice words:

"In Homegirl!, Ryder Collins breaks every rule, pulls every punch. This isn’t your mother’s love story, though Homegirl and Collins alike are at their best when they show us their big bleeding hearts. Ryder Collins creates a character we quickly seethe with, ache for, and follow through the fog and darkness to whatever end."
- Stacia M. Fleegal, author of Versus and Anatomy of a Shape-Shifter, editor of Blood Lotus

"Raucous, sexy and full of verve, Homegirl! will spank you and punch you in your teeth and leave you longing for more. This is a wildly entertaining book and Homegirl's is a hypnotic voice."
- J.W. Wang, editor of Juked

"Ryder Collins' debut novel Homegirl! blasts onto the scene like a punk rock debutante. Collins shows readers what love looks like and what love should look like. This novel has an energy that makes the rest of us look like we're comatose."
- Dan Nowak, author of Recycle Suburbia and Of a Bed Frame

"Collins' innovative debut is provocative and intriguing. Full of candor and darkness, Homegirl! is a real parable of modern times. Collins makes an insightful statement into the evolution of relationships in the contemporary world. A gem of a read."
- Chloe Caldwell, author of Legs Get Led Astray

♥♥♥♥

mama is too avant-garde,yo

2011-08-20T21:18:00.001-05:00

7 mama's not gonna names & make it all bougy Flaubert's Madame Parrot & shit (& that "7" at the start of this should be an ampersand but mama's too avant-garde to change it , yo)... but mama's been told by some higher-ups somewheres in some kind of towers that her writing's too avant-garde for her to be the teacher of the short stories.

mama walks down staircases to get into her classes

as mama walks down staircases she fragm ents into woodeny slabs

these slabs do not slinky down; they rough-hewn their asses down

mama leaves avant-garde splinters in her wake she is so cubist, yo

mama really wanted to be a fauvist but robert smith took all the day-glo & he wouldn't let her on that bus

mama had to settle for the slow dignified shuffling of wooden cubes

mama wants to say somethings about trajectories: the inverse of MFA narrative arcs and shit but mama's still descending descending & there is no meaning to be found in a stairwell & there is no meaning to being found in wood

timber-limbs are heavy; mama's wooden-tired

wooden-graceful

she is the cubist ballerina she would pirouette if she had toes, yo.

obsess, yes yes

2011-08-13T14:27:00.000-05:00

his is what

he is what

homo say what?

aw snap, mama is the homophobes now...

hetero say what?

aw snap, mama is the heterophobes now...

he is still what.

he is alive & he is gone.

mama is trying...

be nice to mama's poetic sense right now. mama just went to a death metal fest yesterday where there was too much satan in everyone's pants and she saw this band, all shall perish, & the singer dedicated one of his songs to the best blowjob he ever got & while he was singing mama knew he'd never been deep-throated then spanked by mama & she thought maybe she'd let him sign her titties out of pity but then she got distracted by the motorcross free-fliers & then she saw a gimp sans ball-gag & then she saw a guy dressed up as a banana & if it hadn't been so fucking hot in atlanta & if the sun wasn't shining down & making mama's new tatt all jesuschristaura-y, mama woulda gone down into that moshpit cos mama's got the rages & they burn so unholy through her that she is left with nothing but cliches & sex to put them out & mama woulda moshed & she woulda gone straight for that banana.

she woulda said, hey banana boy.

she woulda said, banana, i'm coming for you...

& when mama's dead & maybe famous someone working on a phd somewhere might analyze the amount of phallic imagery in this post, yo.

yo, banana.

mama will not even tell you what she did to the pick-up truck full of georgia boys who dared to catcall her as she was searching for her car after the fest in the atlanta heat.

mama was wearing boots.

mama was wearing boots the gimp'd had peed and licked and rubbed his leather cool ranches doritos face on...

mama couldn't help but beat the gimp til he peed then punish him with the lickings & the cool-ranches...

this has gone beyond fetish & death, yo...

mama didn't really touch the gimp.

gimps kinda turn mama off...

mama is obsessed with

mama is obsessed with a certain he

he used to be a trucker

he used to be

he is still

but mama obsesses

this is what mama has replaced him with in her obsessions

& it is so nice & the hula hoop is so chartreuse & that is mama's fave color & maybe this went round the Interwebs like two years ago but mama was sitting on her porch with her bourbons and her shotgun then... mama didn't venture out til the trucker showed up on her lawn.

he needed a shower & a shave...

mama'd only had half a jug of bourbon & let him in.

that was probably a mistake.

yours w/out any pix,

ryder

who would like to blurb me?

2011-08-10T21:52:00.002-05:00

yeah, that's most likely a euphemism, yo.

mama likes it when writers pretend they really care about all the other writers they know & i means all of them & they give shouts out to their 200+ writer friends & talk about what great writers all of them are when mama knows that most of them are dennis hoppering words like blue velvet elvis hotcakes.

whatever the fuck that means.

mama's just feeling guilty cos all these great lit mags - decomp, > kill author, fix it broken - have just dropped more babies & mama didn't even go to the shower or buy diapers or footy pajamas or butt cream let alone visit the maternity ward.

just remember mamas afraid of babies.

just remember mama has to drink the many manhattans to even be near a baby let alone touch their uncanny little fingernails or smell their sweet powdery nasty diaper+oldspit-up funk...

but mama will go to those babies & she will read their fresh pink skin. she will read their vulnerable limbs. she will hold them & offer them words. words like aw girls pissing & bitch saying & home girl fuck good & ninjas & sam elliot mustache

& that is no way to talk to a baby

so she will offer them better words like smash & gossamering & lemon dress & yea & verily, yo

mama will also check out barge when it drops its first... & not just cos mama's gonna be part of its second, but that's what's you're thinking...

mama knows. mama's not wearing pants & therefore she's wiser right now.

mama's legs are free & kicking up jigs & anarchists right now.

mama's been drinking the many of the bourbon highballs now. & mama's studying the small defense of a baby's yawn & the small hypocrisy of the fontanelle & the small ice sliver fingernails in her manhattan now & the maraschino juiced cherry fetuses floating floating...

yours in love,
ryder

this is how the southes make me feel

2011-08-06T02:01:00.000-05:00

& everyone has to die...

which is why mama's not gonna be networking right now cos no one wants their name & death in the same goddamn sentence...

but mama loves y'all, yo...

okay, mama loves y'all some.

okay mama loves getting some.

yours,
ry

bitches better represent

2011-08-03T23:48:00.000-05:00

mama wishes she were better at the networkings & the makings of friends

mama would be a good friend if she didn't always want to sleep with your boyfriend

or your girlfriends

mama says, bitches why you be fronting & not be hitting on me?

mama doesn't actually talk like that

mama's plans for the future include:

- writing another book
- learning how to one-arm pump a shotgun
- finding true love or at least someone she can stand to fuck every day
-1/2 sleeve (at least!) of tattoos
- owning her weird shit
-leaving bama for good & never coming back not even to travel through cos once the portal opens...
-finding something good to eat in her freezer she forgot about
- finding a book she left in the freezer she forgot about
- starting a fetish porn company called "Ladia"
- making you play guess the fetish
- wearing big boots
- collecting all the bobby pins she left in her trucker's bed

- doing heroin (& maybe they'll have even better drugs by then!) when she turns 80
- sitting on her porch with one arm shooting up and the other one-arm pumping the shotgun when she's 80, yo
- using exclamation marks cos they makes her jaded heart just a little less jaded

yo.

mama's got a brand new tatt

2011-07-22T14:41:00.000-05:00

yo.

for reals.

yo.

love is a frog and catting thing, yo.

i am so not cool

2011-07-18T13:12:00.000-05:00

i have a dog & my dog barks all the time & my dog doesn't listen to me & my dog would rather roll around in the alabamaz dirt than sit near me...

i read thought catalog articles about hipsters & can't decide if i'm a hipster or not & know deepdown if i were a hipster i wouldn't be conflicted about my identity or maybe i would?

i am no longer twenty

i am no longer twenty but sometimes forget & go to the bars

i am no longer twenty & didn't have the books of poetry published when i was

i am no linger rimbaud & never really was

i am no longer twenty but sometimes forget & go to the bars & get drunky

i have a picture of my dog that makes him seem like he's drunky & i'm no longer twenty

i'm no longer twenty & i forget and go to the bars when ovulating

i know when i ovulate & when not

almost every sentence of this post begins with "i"

i'm not trying to be meta, yo

i don't try to be meta but it just comes out that way...

here is a Meta portion from my book, Homegirl! Homegirl! is wayway cooler than mama & doesn't call itself mama:

Meta tried to pick up this Homegirl chick at a bar but b*tch gave him the wrong number or else she was too drunk and couldn’t remember her own cell number, which is a very good possibility.

Meta, like everyone else, easily gets bored with their own FB updates.

Meta is one of those FBers who comment on their own FB status updates. Not because Meta has no friends but because that’s how Meta roll. Meta also doesn’t find talking about Meta in the third person the least bit awkward.

Homegirl oh my god, my head.

Homegirl wants to know if you know any publishers or agents or even interns or an intern’s intern or the people responsible for Twilight’s popularity. Or Goth minions looking for a mistress/author.

Homegirl is going to get a tatt that says "deirfiúr" and will tell anyone who asks it means "deflowered."

Meta likes If you think writing about writing is so 1990, I will cut you, If you think meta-fiction’s seen its day, I will kill your dog and also make every day of your life just slightly less pleasant by one unnoticeable increment til you gets to the point where your less pleasant day is your standard for pleasant, and I bet this pickle can get more fans than yo mama.

Homegirl likes, Omg, leave me alone, my head and Go get mama a highball and quit your crying cos Santa ain’t real.

the end,
ryder

this is what my book looks like, yo

2011-07-14T18:55:00.001-05:00

i am so excited, for fucking reals!

check this awesome cover out. mama is in love...

thanks, honest publishing press for finding such a kick-ass artist!

wow. like i said, i'm in love. i'm so much in love i'm wearing a pink gingham sundress and heels and a pink headband and rhinestoned glasses and i just got an updo & i'm fucking cleaning and twirling and cooking & spinning & i will have a fucking pot roast and a fucking martini ready for that cover when that cover comes home, yo.

love,
ryder

post-Louisville wrap-up: aught-11

2011-06-26T16:22:00.000-05:00

here is a re-cap from my annual sojourn to the kentuckyz aught-ten:

That's my tough talkz; I am in the Kentuckyz; I'm reading about a quilt. Businessmen in the Kentuckyz love the high knee boots. Believe it. They're not like the Alabamaz businezmen who like the sorority girls in their little heels and their prom dresses and the promise of pom-pomz and pigtails later.

this year mama's matured & she calls the kentuckyz the kentuckies.

this year the hot lesbian did not look mama up & down like she was gonna eat her up.

this year a hot bald guy tried to flirt w/ mama & mama, lacking the social skills & the drink at that time, just didn't get it...

this year mama was stopped often & told she had a great sense of style. she was also told she looked eurotrash. maybe that's a compliment for hipsters but in miltown where mama's from them's fighting words, yo. bitch is lucky she didn't get a pbr upside the head. for reals.

this year mama wasn't looking for her mojo. maybe she should be looking for her mojo. maybe mama spent all her mojo in the writing of Homegirl! we'll see, eh? cos Homegirl!'s gonna fucking drop this year, yo.

the last night in ky, this year, mama went to a chi-chi bar by herself cos mama was looking all eurotrashy & she sat at the bar & ate chi-chi potato gnocchi & drank a manhattan & read Jean Rhys Good Morning, Midnight & it was yar...

after mama ate & drank & read, she walked around the chi-chi restaurant's hotel's museum & she fell in love with the juxtaposition of the drunken wedding receptions & the solitude & she took pictures of the pictures & giggled to herself & thought about crashing a reception but they looked boring fratboyesque & so she left & walked down Main St (i fucking kid you not) & stumbled upon the ky gay pride parade & tried to catch beads.

it was more than yar.

mama ended her last night in ky in a dive bar on bardstown with a double of maker's, no mardi gras beads, a crush on a 70 year old photographer, & three magnums in her underwire bra... cos that's where she keeps her integrities, yo...

yours,

ryder

This is what mama's working on, yo...

2011-06-05T15:13:00.000-05:00

The Hater’s Winter

The hater hated winter.

The hater hated a lot of things, of course, but winter was especially bad.

It wasn’t because of the cold and the isolation and the boogers freezing and then cutting the inside of delicate nostrils or the sun sparkling off frozen white crystallized sheets of snow that scrunched crunched under heavy booted but still cold feet. It was that, yes, and then it was one of her exes.

The hater had a lot of exes. That’s goes without saying, yo.

The hater wouldn’t have cared so much if she could just get away from her exes, but the more an ex hated her the closer he lived to her.

This one was a couple houses down now. On the same side of the street even.

It was part of a curse or something and something she meant to ask the ghost who lived in her bathroom about. But she was always pissing the ghost who lived in her bathroom off by singing indie pop in the shower.

The ghost especially hated her Beach House covers, but she just couldn’t stop.

This one’d gotten a boner every time it snowed. This one’d gotten a boner all the time but this one would get even more of a boner when it snowed and this one would grab the hater’s hand and pull her off the warm couch where they were cuddling and watching some crap movie this one owned while making out and trying to be discreet because this one had a three year old son who didn’t know any better about men and women except that his mommy and daddy no longer lived together and the hater was not the cause of that.

This one would say, Snoooooowwww. And it would be so long and so drawn out it was like a coming moan. It was more of a coming moan than any moan this one’d let out when they had sex. & this one would pull the hater up and pull her out the door and leave the three year old behind. Then this one and the hater would be in his car – a datsun or some shit – and he would be peeling out of his driveway and he wouldn’t be looking and he would be kinda moaning and trying to light a cigarette all at the same time and the hater would be all like what am I doing here, but she wouldn’t articulate this because the hater always wanted to see what kind of shit she could get herself into in a small way and how she could get herself out of it and how little energy she could get away with exuding to get her ass out of whatever small but poignant or dramatic or fucked up situation she was in in her small way.

If the hater could just sit and never say anything, she thought she’d be okay.

This one had a small one but it was thick and that was all right, but it was no Turk, yo. This one drove like he had a big one or more like he was making up for not and that was so cliché and so were the doughnuts he’d be spinning in the snow except that he was 35 not 15 and the hater was 30 and her youth was wasting wasting. Her youth was gone. She’d spent it in coffee spoons and goth makeup and sexual tensions she’d never acted upon and hot crayon wax and fake alcohol drinks and peach schnapps and a couple of softball teams and a guy who called all summer long when she was thirteen and asked if she knew anything about cross dressing and he’d scared her but she kept on picking up that phone because she didn’t know how to leave anything alone.

This one would be spinning spinning the car and it would be snowing and the hater would be like, are you for real, but she wouldn’t say it out loud.

All around them it would be that soft dark that only happens when it snows and it could’ve been über-romantic with the almost pastel sky and their breaths visible and so close in the car’s closeness and their hands seeking warmth.

I'm up North, bitches

2011-06-05T15:04:00.001-05:00

that's right ------------- mama made it past the Mason Dixon line. suckas! she's walking the riverwest streets in sunlight with her cujodog & waiting for the mayhems.

there have been little mayhems but she's waiting for the big mayhems

there has been a one year anniversary bender but no coffee table kissed mama's ass this time

mama 's waiting for the mayhems like a burst heart on center street cos she saw the ex-marine & he was all paunchy & grey & drinking a grande macchiatto & her heart just couldn't take it

mama's waiting for the mayhems like Homegirl! in a mexican standoff & then there's a gunshot & Homegirl's runningrunning & blood purring pouring a la Thomas Hardy pooling in the shape of a heart...

mama's waiting for the trucker to convoy through the blockade past the sheriff, up the sidewalk, & straight into her arms...

mama's waiting.

yours,
ryder

there are things too terrible to say but this is not that

2011-05-23T22:21:00.002-05:00

this post is for the 7th Language/Place Blog Carnival. it is mama's meditation on the novel she's working on called The Hater's Winter. the novel has a hater & in at least one chapter there's winter. mama may have been huffing things while meditating on her novel. she may not have. she doesn't remember. it was just another monday evening down in the bamas...

oh, & check out the previous Carnivals.

there is too much narrative and it is buzzing

there is too much narrative and it is a-rodeoing

there is too much narrative and a stranger comes to town

when the stranger comes the town rubber bands

when the stranger comes there's an increase in kool-aid & dope fiends

oh, yeah

that might be too narrative; that might equator

there are kool-aid & sex fiends in your winter

there is a winter and there is a hater

the hater lives. she lives in the winter. she breathes it in & the winter congeals

the winter tumbles. the winter corpuscles. the winter tongues.

the laws of physics do not apply to some narratives...

especially when there's too many kool-aid strangers

the only equation here was stolen from a blog

when strangers come to blogs there is sex-doping

this only equation has nothing to do

this only equation has nothing to do with narratives or strangers

the winter breathes in the hater and she goes dope-sex carnivaling

she goes doping she goes sexing she leaves you fiending on your couch

you drink kool-aid and you tumble

you drink kool-aid & your tongue's now her hater

it is snowing

it is snowing & there is a stranger

it is snowing & there's a hate in your winter

yours w/ luv,
mama

mama has to go deep & go dark

2011-05-16T23:31:00.000-05:00

mama has just finished Barbara Browning's The Correspondence Artist & yes, mama reads & no, mama is not just all body body...

this bit killed mama:

(wait - spoiler, alert...

if you haven't read Browning's book click click away now, chilluns...)

"I mean, I'll miss the fiction, I'll miss Tzipi and her cruelty and her hair, I'll miss Binh's images and his beautiful cock, and Djeli's angelic voice, and Santuxto's hypochondria. I'll miss waking up every morning and running to the computer so I could be with them again. And I cried a little, again, writing the end."

that little bit made all the games, all the postmodern slippage, all the simulacra worth it for mama in the end.

cos I cried when I was done writing Homegirl! and then I cried some more when I finished the re-writes & now I'm crying cos I know mama has to go deeper & darker at the end & sometimes mama wonders just how much art wants from her. couldn't art just leave her alone to watch her stories & then every now & then drop by for some moon pies?

couldn't art just call, every now and then, even tho mama doesn't have a landline?

couldn't art just text & be like, how u doing?

couldn't art just turn up in a pocket of mama's housecoat, cos she bought it from the goodwills, & just be there, waiting?

couldn't art just come by with the sheriff & be all, this one yours, too?

mama knows better & when art calls mama lays out the good jelly jars, the ones without the chips, & she serves cava & the hummus cos she knows the arts probably likes to pretend its cruelty free even tho art is the first one to smash your face into the pillow ant take you from behind while wearing newly-skinned veal calf boots and baby seal furs.

yours,
ryder

This is mama’s home, this is mama’s skin

2011-05-14T11:00:00.000-05:00

This is a guest post by Caleb J Ross as part of his Stranger Will Tour for Strange blog tour. He will be guest-posting beginning with the release of his novel Stranger Will in March 2011 to the release of his second novel, I Didn’t Mean to Be Kevin in November 2011. If you have connections to a lit blog of any type, professional journal or personal site, please contact him. To be a groupie and follow this tour, subscribe to the Caleb J Ross blog RSS feed. Follow him on Twitter: @calebjross.com. Friend him on Facebook: Facebook.com/rosscaleb

Mama said I like what you done, thanks for that, you write all those books? yeah, any good, no. I like what you done though. My writing? nope, everything else though. Like Saramago you write on and on and on with barely a breath. Just for this blog post, I said. Very meta. Saramago doesn’t do meta.

Mama welcomed me, said I could stop by this blog of hers and did so without stipulations. Bad news for me. See she’s done some things, witnessed some things too, and at the end of all these things she’s still standing. Not true for those she’s witnessed doing those things or those she’s done those things to.

She creases back Stranger Will, her knuckles and fingernails still bloody from those things she’s done. I read some of this, she says. I read the part about finding the lady in the basement, about taking her to the hospital, about finding out she’s been pregnant, but isn’t any more, about finding out that doctors told her she’s just got to wait until the rest of the baby pieces come out naturally. Naturally, she says pulling up from the book, not funny.

No supposed to be.

Then I like what you done, she says.

I read the part about the kids hugging that tree, all covered in poison-

Phenol, I correct her.

That stuff really burn through clothes like you say?

I didn’t say. I wrote.

I done some things too, none of this garbage you write about, but real stuff. I’m gonna look into that phenol stuff. Can I keep this book?

I’m not taking it away.

tomorrow: guest post; today: hate

2011-05-13T22:18:00.000-05:00

tomorrow: caleb ross's stranger will tour stops here! mama's so excited cos someone's actually stopping by & doesn't mind the chilluns & the empty highball glasses & the mama's in a housecoat cos all her mumus got burned up by her last ex right before he left cos alagasco shut off the oven again & he needed somethings to start a fire cos he lost his lighter & you know...

today: hate
mama did the hate fucking once. only once. she left her boots on. this was way back when mama was a willow & a teen & she had the passions for more than just the muscly men in her stories...

mama's lying here; mama's always got the passions cos she's like mel gibson minus the christ & equal the crazy & minus the misogyny and equal the drunk dialings...

mama once had a guy say, i think i'm beginning to hate you...

mama appreciated the honesty. for realsies.

& that's when mama finally gots the allure of films like casablanca and an affair to remember. it took mama a long time. before she always wanted to share. she craved intimacy: the hairs all over the bathroom counter. the burnt toast scrapings. the beer bottle caps underneath her feets. the sheriff knocking at her door & asking, this one yours? the sheriff knocking again and again.

mama's lying again. mama's got more class than you think. she's drinking cava. from a jelly jar. but cava nonetheless, you snobs.

(mama didn't mean it, babies. mama loves you all.)

yours,
ryder

BlazeVOX 11 is alive & reals...

2011-04-30T17:06:00.000-05:00

check it out, yo

at the combination pizza hut & taco bell

2011-04-24T17:33:00.002-05:00

mama's been thinking about you. this post is for you. there is no you. there is only you.

mama was gonna do an homage to wigleaf's un/happiness writers' playlist and list un/happy songs she listens to when she's stranded at Love's Truck Stop in the combo pizza hut/taco bell but then mama was distracted by the readings of the other entries...

& wigleaf's playlist's gots Kyle Beachy, Ryan Bradley, mama, Gabe Durham, Erin Fitzgerald, Carissa Halston, Andrea Kneeland, Lacey Martinez, David Peak, Matt Salesses, Lucas Southworth, Amber Sparks, Terese Svoboda, and xTx.

mama wants to give a shout out to Carissa Halston, both for her piece cos it's rocking, & for liking mama's, but sometimes mama feels shy about giving the shouts-out to writers she don't know cos then they might think things that are not so nicey-nice about mama or they might become twitter friends & rock (you know who you are, Tina, and let me know when new stuff drops...) or they might ignore her or mama might take it too far & ask them to be her boyfriend.

mama's all kinds of confused cos it's six in the morning & there ain't no gin and juice.

yours,
ryder

p.s. this song makes mama happy...

found found poem & a cool bloggy blog

2011-04-17T20:08:00.000-05:00

deep spring cleaning today the kind of cleaning where mama gets rid of the mens who don't think she's even better than a red bull at a truck stop after trucking nonstop and mama found this found poem she found a long time ago...

next
could
these
my fight
about expressed
as
not
especially
brought maybe own
or wanted
a-ight it
poems may
have
later late.

if
this
to me
published
in
some sort
not kind
since.
sorry.
the job & sestina
verse this
or bradfield them?
vision may assistant
where see/read
editors emphasized
having my
   name. agenda.
meet me
   if
   you don't
after 5 pm
   to have elaine
will want
   he's up
the other stuff
   seems well
   i'm free,
   see.

here is a cool blog you should check out and here is mama's review again not cos mama's vainglorious or some shit but mama's still at the truckstop and the truckers keep passing her by on their way to grab a red bull or 4 loco from the cooler...

yours,
ryder

mama likey-like more than highballs!

2011-04-13T19:33:00.000-05:00

The gracious and talented Sheldon Lee Compton has posted the first review of mama's chapbook, Orpheus on toast, over at his blog, Bent Country.

Checkcheckcheck it out cos Shel likes boots & mama likes boots...

mama's boots, for reals.

mucho mucho luvs,
ryder

a cliffhanger at Bent Country

2011-04-12T21:03:00.000-05:00

& tenterhooks & softshoe dancing & check these links out, yo:
http://bentcountry.appalvoice.com/?p=219
http://bentcountry.appalvoice.com/?p=223

Sheldon Lee Compton, uber-talented writer, will be reviewing mama's chap tomorrow on his blog, Bent Country.

thanks, Sheldon, for reading mama's stuff!

mama's gonna go hide in a truck stop now.

yours in boots,
ryder

2 things i just read

2011-04-10T12:52:00.000-05:00

that knocked mama out better than LL & better than her highballs:

a story about bears and death and brothers and love by J.A. Tyler

&

a story about skates and Neil Diamond and a hole in a sweater and love by Lauren Tamraz

read read & then go sundayfunday!

- ryder

yay!

2011-04-10T10:46:00.000-05:00

mama's drinking her coffee au soy & she's checking the FBs & she sees THIS! & she's all like, it's real, for reals. Homegirl! has found a home...

yours,
ryder

i am supposed to like the things

2011-04-08T23:07:00.000-05:00

here are the things i am reading:

the orange eats creeps
wittgenstein's mistress
light boxes (again cos mama's teaching it)

here are the things that are waiting for me to read:

2666
the box man
the correspondence artist
museum of the weird
new > kill author
this shite

here are the things i got in the mail, today!:
mud luscious press things
glimpses
some kind of toys (& mama has some kind of date tonight; the chilluns are at the movies &/or playing in traffic)

here is one thing i want to read:
edward gorey's stories

here is what mama's been listening to over and over obsessively:
the hazards of love

here is where mama first found love:

yours in love at the corner dive bar,
ryder

whores like a choir

2011-04-07T22:30:00.000-05:00

this is my favest song evah.

(don't leave yr house today, tomorrow, or evah...)

what postmodern imp mashed enigma clips with pixies?

where is mama's tequila when she needs it?

don't make mama go vfwing for shots & stolen glimpses of garter socks
again...

yours,
ryder

i'll take happy

2011-04-04T21:08:00.000-05:00

mama was gonna write an awesome post to you all but mama got distracted by a guy whose brown eyes somehow reminded her of whiskeys & whose voice made mama feel like she was wearing white eyeshadow and cat's eye eyeliner and mama still had her little pixie do...

mama with a pixie

that pix doesn't do the pixie justice cos mama's angry there cos someone grabbed the cd mama was cutting her cokes on & turned it over to check the song list out. mama thinks it may have been a weezer cd to boot.

irony or some shit.

mama still doesn't understand irony. still. really. someone please explain that shit to her.

all mama knows is that only one song on this tribute to elliot smith cd's aight & is that ironic?

is it as ironic as a weezer cd no one wants until there's some coke on it?

mama saw pixies once & they opened for weezer. really. & mama left when weezer came on & she wandered the fest by herself & boys kept trying to give her weezer tix. for reals.

there is no moral there. or irony. maybe.

someone take a pix of mama. someone take an arty pix. make it all black and white & nudey cos mama wants to be cool like you all; she wants the graceful hint of nipple & the curve of hips without the close up of aerolea and pink & pores.

pores are gross & unironic. this much mama knows.

yours,
ryder

Happy whiskey vs sad whiskey

2011-04-04T06:42:00.000-05:00

yeah, it's mama's choice - the only choice she's gots...

& the only choice she'll have left if the gop-shop have their way.

& mama wants to know why she attracts the mens with the angsties. & mama needs to decide if her whiskey's gonna be sad or happy soon.

there is a bottle labeled sad; there is a bottle labeled happy...

mama will drink one or the other or both & she still be hurtled down that rabbit hole.

someone once told mama she had no integrity. mama sd, yeah, that left me when i stopped fitting into 36Bs, duh... then she pretended she fit them & now she do again, so what does that even mean?

mama measures her integrity in underwire. just ask the fictiondaily boys she so admires...

mama admires a lot of boys & mama likes the sexing & that's the #1 reason that one sd all that shit.

but i am not cool enough for any of you

& i am sick of seeing womens with big heads on wee bodies...

ryder

I will try to make this one cleaner...

2011-03-27T13:42:00.000-05:00

I am still celebrating in my head.

There is a rave and it is going boom boom boom and there is E and mentholatum masks and mentholatum g-straps and writhing and grinding...

Wait.

There is a fancy dinner party and I am wearing my dress to the fancy party and there is no booming bass and no mentholatum. Only adults talking Kierkegaard and Heidegger and Kant and every now and then someone uses Said to critique the sushi served on the naked Vietnamese girl...

Wait.

& that is so like 2000 or something. & raves are so 1990. Get with the times, mama.

In case you didn't catch my last post, mama's been drinking champagne for a week straight. It's Cook's, but hell, mama's urine is still so sweet now, and the world wavers and the world bubbles. When peeps talk at mama, she sees those cartoon bubbly things encasing their words. When cars honk at mama for dancing in the street, mama throws champagne bottles at them.

Mama's novel, Homegirl!, is gonna be published by Honest Publishing.

If you want to check out bits of Homegirl!, there are links under I get around. Click on them, or don't. Just enjoy your Sunday funday and have a mimosa and/or fall for someone for mama...

Homegirl + Labretboy?

Yours,
Ryder

Um fuck yeah... Homegirl! & Honest Publishing

2011-03-21T11:19:00.000-05:00

Mama's novel Homegirl! has found a home!

Homegirl! has found a home with these good blokes.

Soon all you truckers and punkboys and ex-Marines and jaded tycoons and casualties and cafe sluts and homegirly homegirls can get a copy for your owns.

i am so excited i've forgotten all about being stuck in the alabamaz...

your homegirl,
ryder

mama'll teach you how to be happy

2011-03-18T22:57:00.000-05:00

i'm feeling fablish again. mama must've given all her twigs away & sniffed all her no-doz ups.

there was a trucker with a baby & the baby said, trucker, & the trucker said, daddy, and the baby said, drive, and the trucker said, jesus, & pulled into a truck stop & berryman's ghost was there & berryman's ghost thought he was henry chinaski.

& bukowski's ghost was there & bukowski's ghost thought he was sade.

& you thought mama was gonna say bukowski was all huff henry. & not marquis de, dummy, but this sade. this sade is bukowski's ghost & this reminds mama of when she was living in AZ with a methhead and an artist and a bisexual seaman & this is not a joke...

no, she was living with the ex-boyfriend of the bisexual seaman; mama had a crush on the bi seaman.

sade makes mama want to make love, & bukowski makes mama want to fuck. or maybe sade makes mama wants to bang & bukowski makes her want to cuddle.

is there any difference? really? except words?

just like all those people that try to define art. hmm. yep yep.

art is my truck stop where the baby asks questions like what's up, trucker, & where's my egg sandwich? where the cashier's drunk on red bulls & vodkas & she's got squiggles of coke coming out her nose but she ain't high on it cos life's a motherfucking balancing act & she hit the redbull/vodka combo a little too hard & even the baby notices but the trucker's thinking maybe he can hit that when mama's not looking & mama's woodsman outside in the parking lot alone.

forlorn.

he has burned the twigs & given away the heart.

he has to return to the queen empty-handed this time.

he is thinking about rogozoving his own heart out...

the ghosts are flying in & out of the truck stop beer cave. bukowski's all silken as sade & henry chinaski always wants a piece. always. even when he's shitting. even when he's sleeping. right now he's floating floating and trying for palpable. she flies in between his legs & through. she sings something as she swoops around & her hair is long & she is beautiful and then she's gone. in the beery vapours. gone.

your fairytale mama,
ryder

p.s. thanks to Anna Nimh, aka Tina Hyland, for teaching me something about appendixes & surgeonal fortitude today (aka rogozov)...

underground man don't care; underground man don't give a shit

2011-03-13T20:13:00.001-05:00

why all the hating, you ask? possibilities: mama's practicing. mama's on steroids. mama can't spell anymore & it's pissing her off. mama's sick of cliques. mama's sick of mens. mama's sick & twisted. mama's hungry. mama's horny. mama's bored. those kids are on mama's lawn again. mama's bike got stolen. mama got a cat. mama got a fuckweasel. mama's a honeybadger. mama's eating larvae. mama's been reading Notes from the Underground again...

underground man is a hardcore hater.

mama's fave part in Notes is when our lovely narrator gets krunked up and marchy-marches around. check this shit out cos underground man don't care; underground man don't give a shit:

They was all hangin round the big pimping baller, Zverkov, cos Zverkov done bought the Courvoisier. Three bottles for reals. Zverkov was all rah-rah while he poured one for his homies & tot dissed me. I mean, bougie buster didn't ask me to partake, of course. The marks sat round him and ate his floss up. "Word? Word?" I wondered. They conversated about the East Coast, the honies and the shorties, a straight-up hustler called Podkharzhevsky and fronted like they knew hims, of how the Princess D was butta & how they was all tights with her, too, then they started on how Tupac ain't dead...I started to wig cos I was buzzing & on my way to getting krunked. I was on my grind to get their attention but the busters didn't pay me no mind. They wanted me to bounce so I kept marching back and forths. "Peace out, busters. I march for myself, yo." I was tripping from the turning; sometimes I thought I was straight up bugging. I felt throwed, for reals. I was stabbed to the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years later would pass, and that forty years later I would remember how that night I played myself.

mama's starting the writings of her new novel. mama's new novel's about hate and death; just like Homegirl! was about love & sex.

for realsies,
ryder

freaky anthology + me = bad romance

2011-03-01T19:17:00.000-06:00

hey y'all,

mama's in an anthology and this is the press and here is the direct link to their store where you can buy the anthology, Bad Romance, & make mama happier than men in hair shirts ever could.

that is a hair shirt sans man.

yours in the freaky,
ryder

cum trees & horseshoes

2011-02-26T21:26:00.001-06:00

lots of people like to play horseshoes & some people like to smell cum. some people keep cum stained underwears under their pillows & some people rub the cumstain on a breathing-mask & breathe that shit in deepdeepdeep like motherfucking dennis hopper in blue velvet...

i'm not here to be dennis hopper or isabella rossellini... i'm not here to talk about the evils of nitrous oxide or murder or cum or horseshoes. i'm not here to talk about the masks people wear willingly & the masks people wear willingly & hide...

i have a new understanding of mens, tho...

my new understanding started & stopped with my trucker.

my trucker hasn't been picked up for contraband or some shit.

my trucker got on his cb & broadcast shit about natalie portman or about ballerinas or about swans & their mating habits that didn't mean much to me...

as for the cumtree & for the horseshoes:

there was a tree that smelled like sperm. & many of the women who came upon this tree said, wow, this smells like sperm. & many of the men who came upon this tree said, wow, this smells like sperm. but, some of the men who came upon this tree did not like the smell of sperm; but, some of the women who came upon this tree did not like the smell of sperm.

& we won't talk about freud & traumas & repression for the mens who don't like the smell of their own sperm...

& we won't talk about what happened to that poor little cumtree in a society that doesn't value open, honest sexuality...

i'm in a place where i'd never thought i'd be. i'm in a place where i write non-apologetically. i write more here then i'd ever thought.i write & i think about writing. i write & i know others wonder about the purpose of writing. i write & those deep thoughts are written by others. i write & i know why i write & i will tell some one some day but there is no tautology going on & there is no teleology going on here, assholes. i write & i miss you & you will never know who you are & you could be anyone - the punker with the three-legged cat, the boy who never sent me that cd, the Russian who gave me whiskey on my bday, the Turk who wanted me to be his valentine, the ex-marine - i'll never tell you cos that's what writers do. they cover all their shit up.

& i was gonna cut & paste my yearly love horoscope here, but i think i'll just get high on nitrous oxide instead...

yours getting higher,
ryder

Happy birthday & lots of ninjas

2011-02-21T09:39:00.000-06:00

i am gonna send some birthday ninjas to my little sis. my little sis is not speaking to mama for reasons none of y'all need to know. now i know you're all imagining horrible things that mama's done like stealing her sis's corn on a drunken spree with bukowski. not important, so get out of those goddamned cornfields or wherever else your mind is at...

these ninjas are gonna pop out of her closet and her fridge and the trunk of her black Matrix and a random knot in a tree and a barista's ear and some menacing knoll in her dreams and the ninjas will drop kick that menacing knoll's ass and the ninjas will throw, not those pointyass star things, but confetti and they will whisper happy birthday but there will be so many animal balloon making ninjas decked out in streamers and big quiet shoes that it will sound so much like HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

mama is happy

2011-02-10T21:21:00.000-06:00

someone found my blog by googling "mama is happy." whoever you are, you have made it so. mama is happy, yo. & thank you.

mama got a nice prezzie. it was like a dick in a box. maybe it was a box. maybe it was a dick. maybe it was a dick in a box and not just like it. maybe it had nothing to do with dicks and boxes and dicks in boxes and boxes that want dicks and dicks that want boxes. mama's not telling but mama's very happy, yo.

if you know mama, you know why mama's happy. uber-yo.

mama's calling out the peeps that need to be called out. maybe they're writing-writers. maybe they got clout. mama doesn't care cos mama's happy.

mama woke up one morning and her glasses were snapped in half under her pillow & she was all alone. no lie. it was a symbol. duh.

mama thinks duh to the peeps she hasn't called out cos she hasn't thought about calling them out til now & she may call them out but mama may be too happy to call them out.

mama thinks uber-duh to the peeps who circle jerk that she's already called out. duh, to your deep brain things that you get off on typey-typey on the interwebs duh to the fact that you think therefore you is duh to the fact that you're unhappy cos you're living your life to live life like it's supposed to be lived according to no one but yourself and everyone else who has decided to not live their lives the way their lives are supposed to be lived.

duh. mama's happy, yo.

yo,
happy mama

cos naughty is nice in mama's book

2011-02-06T15:46:00.001-06:00

& if you're looking for places to submit (besides my bedroom closet, creepy creepers), check this shit out:

The Meth Lab: SUBMISSIONS OPEN FOR 1ST HIGHdra Syndicate Print Magazine

um, i love this

2011-02-04T23:23:00.000-06:00

@epicrites press i love this

& i don't wanna call a brother out, but i've been looking for a home for my Homegirl! & the Methlab led me to you & my book would seem to fit here but all your books are written by or seem to be written by the mens. what's up with that, yo? even if my book didn't fit, what's up with that, yo?

i wanted to leave a comment on your website but i didn't see any comment-leaving place or even a comment friendly place. i am still playing niceynice...

yes, i'm asking questions & you probably won't even hear the questions but this mama wants to know the answers...

& i am gonna try this pic again even tho last time i lost some twitter friends...

luv ya,
ryder

p.s.type in "totally absurd" into google images to see the percentage of imagination left in the U.S. population...

p.p.s i was trying to change shit up & not talk about the sexings or how wet a pussy could get when the Homegirl gets a looking at.

i am giddy like a lip glossy teenaged postered wall pop music fan fan

2011-01-29T22:03:00.000-06:00

it was 68 degrees here today. holy fuck it was awesome & nothing could get me down. not even the slow drivers i couldn't pass cos there's only one lane of traffic both ways. not even the wal-marts. not even the lack of good restaurants. not even the fact that you all are out there & i'm here. & i am loving Mark Ronson & the Business International & you all needs to check this song out cos it's gots boy motherfucking george & this nice youtuber's translated it into spanish for everyone...

check this new lit mag out, too. i am in their first issue! mama's adding that cherry to her collection. thank you, boys...

& mama's a little afraid we're getting into a rut. mama's afraid you know what to expect form her now & you're getting tired or you're just gonna settle. mama knows she opens with an anecdote that leads into some kind of news & she sprinkles it all with little jimmies of the sexings. mama knows & she just can't stop.

mama knows a lot of things & she just can't stop. like when mama goes way too goddamned fast & it's a two lane highway & she's trying to pass in the wrong lane & there's a pickup truck coming right at her & she barely makes it then laughs & laughs...

yes yes y'all.

yours,
ryder

aw-peeing

2011-01-29T00:24:00.000-06:00

yep yep. it's that time of the month.

no, not the menses, you sick fucks.

okay, that's not fair. the menses is not sick. it's all beautifuls and natural. see, mama's practicing with the nicey-nice.

mama's going to awp & she's gonna see some writers face to face & she heard the writers when they're face to face like to suck face so mama's gonna play it coy cos she never does & writers are all a bunch a liars anyways.

but mama loves em all.

when she's not thinking about the throat-punching of them.

yours in d.c.,
ryder

balls & the wall: an allegory

2011-01-20T21:21:00.001-06:00

this morning mama went to the woods to look for her woodsman with the bambi heart, the heart of gold, the fake heart, the heart in a box. she was looking looking and slogging through kudzu and leaves and vines and strange men pissing and strange women squatting & then she was in a nightclub bathroom circa 2009 and she could hear L'il John and he was skeeting to the windows and to the walls til the sweat dropped down his balls and then she was looking at herself in the mirror and mama was wearing shortshorts and dropping it low. She dropped and jiggled her way out onto the dance floor and then it was thrillville's some cut playing and she was thinking about juggling balls while someone tore down her walls... maybe mama'd never left the nightclub, maybe mama'd never been to the woods, maybe there'd never been a woodsman or a trucker...

pssst - the wall's the cervix, whispered someone close to mama. she felt a hand on her tit and it wasn't her own unlike this morning before she went to the woods when she was in the shower & doing her own memorial service for the trucker - slow and sad her fingers spread cross white breast and pinkypink nips.

& mama sd, duh. don't be so unsexy.

i've always...i like...you... my cock... a lot, whoever whispered.

& mama knew it was the trucker & that this was a flashback or at least this part was a flashback cos the trucker'd gotten lost in that last Northeastern blizzard. the last Nor'easter. & no one'd heard from him; no one'd heard his handle since or found his cb. that roll of film that dude'd found in Brooklyn wasn't the trucker's even tho she wanted to pretend so bad it was the love letter he never sent. that he'd kept it under his cap. until he went down.

(say reduce me, seduce me, dress me up in Stussy.)

& mama said, you ain't real. & then mama was alone at a truck stop and she was watching some trucker snort ritalin off the lottery machine & it was 3:30 in the morning somewheres & mama wanted to get back to the woods.

but there was no good witch to tell her she'd never left them.

so mama got those nachos with the runny fake cheeses (like cheez whiz almost but mama ain't nostalgic, just fucked up) and coffee and then she sniffed the residue of ritalin after that trucker'd left. she tried on cowboy hats and snuck gatorade and red bulls and took a whore bath and a trucker shower and drank more coffee and ignored the new clerk who had a black eye, and coke dribbles coming out her nose.

mama couldn't find the way out; she couldn't find the door.

there was only the wall that was the cervix and the window that had the skeet and the trucker that was lost & the woodsman waiting somewheres in the brush with a freshly cut heart.

yours, all plato cave-like & shit,
ryder

here is a boy

2011-01-18T12:30:00.000-06:00

mama only has kind words for...

& all this talk of tattoos means mama is def finna get that homegirl! heart tatt now.

& here is a song for Homegirl & Punkboy

yours in needles & pricks,

ryder

done with the tortured souls

2011-01-17T18:29:00.001-06:00

it's kinda fitting this is the only version mama could find for the song she wants to play for all her tortured souls...

this is a good song, too. it is a very good song. it is very good for the sexings. it is better than the lounging song. mama's reserving it for non-tortured mens. or the ex-Marine, for old time's sake...

mama's a happy mama

2011-01-16T15:41:00.000-06:00

cos last night she discovered the joy of taking a bath while drinking the wines. she was feeling finefinefine. no wonder the old mens are always trying to lure her into the hot tub and pour jello shots down her mouth. they say, come in northern girl, the water's warm & the shots are so cold, girl, so cold... they say, come to my condo cos papa's got the hot tubbing and the cocaines is better than the viagra...they say, let me look at your nips, just a peeky peek. these old men are randy & that's how mama'll be when she's eighty, too, so mama sometimes pretends like she'll show them some and she starts to pull her v-neck down and they smile & clap their wrinkly hands together like kindergarteners. then she grabs their drink and walks away.

mama spent an hour in the tub & she was warm & flushed. mama didn't think.

mama didn't think about how she sent the trucker this jimmy chen piece cos she thought the parts about the pillow and the porn were funny. & how the trucker might've thought it was a nag or a message or an omen or a goddamned PSA. that mama wanted him to get off the road or some shit. & if mama was gonna send anyone a PSA she'd make damn sure it was through posdnuos or q-tip, c'mon. she'd get them on that cb & that cb wouldn't be bourbon.

mama's gonna take another bath tonight. right after she goes to the store and gets the wines. the old mens there'll know & they'll follow her down the aisles. they'll say, northern girl, how about some canned beets? they'll say, northern girl, look at this cucumber, and then they'll unzip their trousers and these guys are so old they're wearing sock garters and spats. then when mama runs from them, they'll say, that old skidoo... that old skidoo.

mama's good at giving the old skidoo.

& maybe she'll go tease em all later at the vfw. it's just up the road. maybe she'll run into the woodsman first & he'll hand her a locked box with bambi's heart in it so mama can play. so mama can be free to play. so mama can take bambi's heart & hand it to the next mans and say, look, i give you this. and the mans won't know any better & mama'll laugh a wicked queen laugh.

& then go take a bath.

yours,
ryder

mama feels that creeping ennui

2011-01-15T21:39:00.004-06:00

it is like kudzu & it climbs & wraps & grows & climbs & i can hear it growing growing, & there's no natural enemies cos mama's ennui's from japan or someplace. mama's ennui's almost smarter than me & makes me want to exoticize things or some shit.

mama's ennui sends her on safari. mama's seen things. strange safari things like loch ness monsters & kids in capes & bad brains singers & you have to pay the rent puppets & all these other pix she stole

mama doesn't own the pics but mama tried to claim them

mama tried to claim them and/or other them

that was the theorist ennui talking. ignore it or send it postcards signed, Love, Edward Said...

mama was bored & tried to claim whole continents at the bar & when they didn't even send her back a jim beam & coke, at least, mama said they couldn't get it up

mama's gonna burn the fucking kudzu. mama's gonna be burning up that kudzu with a can of petroleum & a flamethrower & then there'll be a woodsman & not a smokey the bear & the woodsman'll say, hey, give me your twigs.

cos the woodsman knows things no trucker'll ever know.

the trucker showed up on safari; the trucker could outlast the safari, but the trucker's on his own safari & his safari is all mac n cheese & not loch ness

& just in case the woodsman doesn't work out, & just in case the trucker safaris out, there's a rest stop a couple miles from my house. mama can walk it if she's drunk. mama's always drunk when the ennui hits & she still walks & walks.

yours cos mama knows how to pick em,
ryder

eggs & peppermills; bastards and whores

2011-01-10T22:00:00.000-06:00

this post is not about sex.

mama doesn't just think about the sexing. mama also has to eat sometimes & sometimes she works & sometimes she pays bills & sometimes she does all those live-living things that make her heavy bored & feel like she gots no inner resources.

she spent her last inner resources on that box of wine she brought to her last lover's wedding as a gift; she spent her last inner resources on the dozen eggs she let rot & then hurled drunkenly at his house after she pulled that Berryman & squatted, square jauntily hanging from her mouth, & peed on his porch; she spent the last of her inner resources on a tank of gas, a pack of cigs, a car wash, & a free poke from the car wash attendant who was legal, thank you, officer; she spent her last inner resources on ripped fishnets & tea & crepes with her ex's mother.

mama's sick of filling her own peppermills & that is a live-living thing & not a non-sequitur. mama's looking for a mans who'll sneak into her kitchen when she's gone or sleeping & who'll make sure her salt & pepper shakers are filled & that is not a euphemism...

mama's looking for a mans who knows she hates eggs but knows she's got eggs & wants to lick her eggs & ram her eggs & this is the only egg mama absolutely loves that doesn't make mama want to reach for a gun.

your bastard, you whore,
ryder

not nearly incoherent enough & mama just crossed the country

2011-01-06T22:33:00.000-06:00

& my eyes crossed from fucking once & i had to hit my head against the truck stop wall afterwards to clear them & i walked back to my car with blood dripping down my face & a nice Kentucky woman asked, honey, are you all right? do you need a cold rag?

& i told her to stuff it & grabbed her cigarette from her fingers & said, ha, i don't even smoke.

& i took the rag, too, cos mama needed a whore bath & i sped off, listening to Grinderman & rubbing my cooch clean

here is a Grinderman song. it has good lyrics; like, i'm only happy when i'm inside her, & my baby calls me the loch ness monster; two great big humps & then i'm gone...

mama'll find that trucker who's only happy when he's inside her. she knows he's somewhere near a vending machine & he likes the candies, of course, & he doesn't have any change & that's how we'll meet. it'll be all ferris bueller's day off charlie sheen-like, except it won't be charlie sheen & he won't be handcuffed & mama's nose's small without a nose job & mama may be the one who's handcuffed later & there'll be no chorus going, mama or shauna or whatever...

whatever, & mama's eyes are crossing now cos she just found out her chapbook's a semifinalist for the Black River Chapbook Competition. there's some eye-crossing sexing in the chap, too, & a fuck lot of glass smashing. tho it's not about truckers, just the apocalypse & balaclavaed babies & anarchists...

loves,
ryder

first mama'll be all body body & then all sappy sappy

2011-01-02T15:45:00.000-06:00

a new year and i'm not gonna bore you with best ofs or rezs or auld lang synes or any of that crap. but i will impart some words of wisdom or some such shit:

1) never shave in the shower with an electric razor with your eyes closed and/or without your glasses. mama somehow shaved off a line of pubes so then she had to shave part of her mound clean and then she didn't have time to shave for like three days cos she'd been kicked out of town again & on the lam and she met this trucker at a rest stop and he was all like, hey there northern girl, get in my cab and she was all like, only if you have cheez whiz to spread all over me and he was all like, of course and so she did and they fucked in the cab and it was hot & she was on top & her tits were jiggling jiggling niceynice but the whole time mama had this little thread of worry, in the back of her mind, behind her eyes closed and that overwhelming feeling of shuddering, which kept her from completely shuddering and crying, that her trucker was gonna shout out miami vice miami vice as he shot his load...

2) biz markie's "just a friend" is the hardest song to get out of your head ever. that is all.

3) make sure you know your foreign languages when you're speaking the dirty talks to your trucker: je te fumerai la tete is not the same as je te plumerai la tete; i will smoke your head's okay but i will pluck your head's so so wrong...

4) after mama left her trucker she was sad and she almost got on the cb to tell him but mama's cb's actually a highball glass of whiskey manhattan and her handle's a handle of maker's so mama couldn't really get the word out about how she felt & there's really no moral here at all; puritan america go suck it. mama'll eat maraschinos and watch...

5) nobody drinks mickey's big mouths anymore. it's a goddamn shame. there should be more mickeyslutting in the world today.

yours in green hot pants,
ryder

perma-nips & dinner with the fam

2010-12-31T00:52:00.000-06:00

& all i want to do is just rub and squeeze and rub and i'm parallel with the table edge almost and the moms is all like, how's the salad, and the pops is all like, what is this place, and the sisters are all like:

betrayer betrayer

& they're mixed up in some kind of Narnia or Secret of Nimh shit & all i can think about is my hard hard nips...

& the sisters see me kinda rubbing & they're like, is it worth it?

& i say, what?

& they say, bohemian grove and haliburton & all your other conspiracies...

& all i wants is someone to rub my perma-hard nips

& that's what gots me in trouble in the first place & those are not mine cos i wouldn't cover my nips up

& then there's bbq sauce & accusations & remoulade & fried green tomatoes & still my nips are hard hard hard

& my sisters are discussing the One World Government

& all i want is a one world fascist to flick my nips and fuck me

& maybe there's a code in my bbq tofu

maybe the trains'll run on time

& maybe my nips'll get played with soon

yours in conspiracies,
ryder

i am getting kicked out of my town

2010-12-26T22:05:00.001-06:00

so i'll drive & drive & drive & there'll be balaclavaed anarchists waiting for me and they'll have fingerless gloves on & they'll welcome me with cold finger-tipped hugs & there'll be balaclavaed babies smashing smashing & there'll be a big mama who wants me nowhere near her babies & then her hubby'll come down again from the firmament & they'll fuck & the babies'll laugh & that is my jesus xtian story & i'll be left out & i'll go looking for Homegirl but she's on a train somewheres...

& the bitch is finally happy. after all i put her through & it was a fuck lot. it was. so she deserves her happiness.

& i'm not crossing the mason-dixon just yet. no.

i'll loop back to my old hometown just to say hey, just to say fuck you, just to say.

just to say, hi, maybe, to the ones who didn't kick me out & we'll drink manhattans and make out cos that's what you do when you're on the lam. innit?

or maybe i'll just go get my homegirl tattoo on. i'm finna get a heart with homegirl's name in it cos i'm a sap.

for realsies,
ryder

hot buttered rums

2010-12-24T22:58:00.000-06:00

there are lots of things to talk about like -

peace on earth and some such shit

how to get a piece

how i giggle when a man says he likes his meat

how i like his meat

ho ho ho's just too easy

but i like hoeing in the gardens

i hoed the garden when i went to london

i'm drinking my second hot buttered rum of the eve and will soon ladle another down my gullet

i'll bathe in pooled butter and molten sugar and hot liquor

i'll stand in a snow bank & see if anyone comes by to lick it off

i'll melt the snow & stand in a puddle & someone'll put a scarf and hat on me and call me Frosty & i'll be the worst kid's movie ever

& this has nothing to do with any of it at all but this is my m.o: to tease & lead you here -

Freaky Fountain Press is publishing a couple of chapters of Homegirl! in an upcoming anthology & i'm so excited & i can't stop thinking about your meat...

i mean peace.

yo & yours,
ryder

four state lines & only two tampons...

2010-12-15T09:18:00.000-06:00

so mama's crossing the country again cos her rellies still live up norths & they refuse to cross the Mason-Dixon even tho it's a wee bit warmer where i live.

& by wee, i mean a hell of a fucking lot.

& the truckers on the interstate are pissing mama off again cos they like to get in the left hand lane where she's doing like 90 & her whole car's shaking & her steering wheel's shaking & her arms are shaking & her legs are twitching & her eyeballs are popping & locking & it's better than twister with methheads until the trucks slow her ride down when they get into the left hand lane & she starts cussing like a tweaker tearing at her own face & her dogs in back start barking barking. it's fucking glorious.

get to indiyucky in one piece & check into the motel & the clerk's giving mama the shifty eyes & mama keeps dropping things like little hansel & gretel trying to find their way out of the woods.

mama wants in those woods. she'd stay lost foreverever.

in my room, i get the flask out & it's whiskeys and water until it's sleepysleeper time.

5 am i wake up in pain. & it's my monthly visitor. my red auntie or someshit like this.

fuck. i only packed two tampons.

and i'm all like, why, period, why?

& my period's like, cos when i signed up for this gig, i was given some rules. & rule #2 is: you must show up at completely inappropriate times, like road trips.

i don't say nothing cos i'm all crampy & groggy & shit.

my period says, remember when you were wearing all white and you looked like a winter goddess? those white wool pants...

i says, yes.

my period says, & the second time you got with the ex-Marine...

i says, he didn't care.

my period says, yeah, there're some guys who don't. & some womens, too.

i say, you gots me, there.

my period hits me with a squeeze from lower back to my knees for confirmatory emphasis.

i say, what's the first rule?

my period doesn't answer cos it's just a part of my body & society wants me to be ashamed of the way my body looks & acts anyways. & if society knew i was having a little convo with my period they'd think mama was loony & make her even more ashamed of her body & the way it bleeds every month & there's that saying about not trusting a bitch who bleeds & doesn't die & i say don't trust a dude who tries to stick it in you who won't stick it in you when you're on the rag cos he's the real bitch & he's the one who needs a plug...

& here are two more plugs:

FIX IT BROKEN's 1st issue!!!!! & mama's in it, along with other good stuffs from Matthew Dexter, Zoe Alexandra, and Barry Graham and Peter Schwartz...

if you haven't already, buy mama's chapbook, Orpheus on toast. it is good like warm bread with melty stuff on it.

yours on the rag,
ryder

mama got all ultimatumy

2010-12-12T09:37:00.001-06:00

mama was fine. mama was even almost happy doing what mama do alone - vacumming nude, eating vegan ramen with sriracha for breakies, getting up at 5 to be the only person in the world, drinking too much and waking up in the guest room cos she took herself home at last call but then was too drunk to take advantage and then mama had to collect her clothes & slip out earlyearly. slink of shame. you know.

& then you show up again. you text or you email or you send a goddamn passenger pigeon or a flaming arrow with an embossed leather message or a baby in a basket down some backwoods nile or you tattoo me hello or you bend some spoons my way or my bush burns or somehow somehow i just know you're thinking about me again & it's usually round this time cos atheists & grindcorists get so goddamned lonely around the xmasses...

& then mama feels something & then mama drinks the maker's manhattans & then she gets yearnyyearny & mama goes to bed & pretends she's in a youtube how to rub one out for womens video & then she wakes up & then she's in the shower & pretending to be in a porno video - so fresh & so cleanclean - & then she's all wetwetwet all the time & you still don't show...

but you keep sending out odd signs like no pickup trucks on my lawn or one spur embedded in mama's back door or a deer heart in my growler and a jpeg of your penis in my dreams

& that's when mama gets angry & that's when mama smash. & that's when mama gets smashed & she sends you ultimatumy things like a tatt that says when or a heart tattoo that says mama or whores like a choir cos mama was alone & shut & you opened her up.

& you always do.

this is the post where mama gets all reviewy and shit

2010-12-05T15:04:00.000-06:00

& i have been meaning to write this post foreverever. for reals.

my review of Anthony Frame's Paper Guillotines is up at Cervena Barva's newsletter

Dan Nowak is a friend of mine and his book Recycle Suburbia is my friend, too. his poems have taken me bowling & to a drag show & then we watched the Family Feud in Spanish together, all of us drunk on cheap vodka. yep yep.

Keyhole Press had a deal earlier and mama got three books for a niceynice price. just finished Matthew Simmons' The Moon Tonight Feels Revenge and let me say, fuck yes. that moon is feeling it. not only cos the book's dedicated to Boduf Songs but cos i can't stop thinking about stories like "Sleep Underground" and "This Mountain I Built." i've never slept underground or built a mountain but now i feel like i could...

& while mama's listing things -

new > kill author rocks! check out Alexandra Kontes' story, R.C. Miller's poems (especially the Bernhard one - yes!), and Tina Hyland's piece, along with all that other talent...

new decomP also rocks! & Tina Hyland's in it, too.

wow, good words make mama so happyhappy. so much happier than cyber-stalking all your new girlfriends...

your homegirl,
ryder

i am so bad

2010-11-29T21:08:00.000-06:00

at the announcements & things cos i got it in my head that i'll bore you & sometimes when i'm in public i don't speak cos i'm afraid i'll be boring or conventional & yeah, i know that's how humans roll but i'm always fighting my goddamned fate or some shit.

i would like to create a diagram of thanks but i suck at art & i suck at math.

it would be a tree-like thing with branches and e.e. cummings roots of love...

see this

i like to spring this on people when it's not February & then say, Happy Valentine's Day

wait, back to my diagram -

first, the Confederate Cowboys: thank you for parking on my lawn, right behind my bedroom window. if i hadn't been so annoyed, we coulda turned the whole thing into a penthouse forum letter.

i like lassos and whips and boots. just so ya know.

i do not like being woken up by big high beams tho through my bedroom window unless you're a trucker or a cowboy or whatever signaling you got somethingsomething for me... a hard cock, a bag of coke, a wet pussy, &c, &c.

i like the old-fashioned &c just like i like the old-fashioned spankings.

next, Wigleaf. thank you for publishing my story about my Confederate Cowboy angst.

& then Swan and David Backer for picking that story for FictionDaily.org

are you surprised i didn't link to my own story? boo-yah, bitches.

& then FictionDaily interviews me & all of a sudden my names up in internetty lights with big shots & i got dizzy & i was seeing something & maybe it was the aura of all the great writing on the internets or maybe it was the grease shining off the temples of all the internet egos.

oh, snap. i just said that cos i was lookings for a metaphor. I'm superstoked to be interviewed alongside writers like blake butler, xtx, sean lovelace, amber sparks, &c.

for reals.

& i have one more announcement that has nothing to do with my tree of love.

or a big branch of hard ramming. a hunk a hunk of hard ramming love...

stacia & i are starting a blog about writing & writers & it is an inclusive blog & we will leave no one out so give us a hollas, yo.

yours in boots & old-fashioned &cs,
ryder

you have taken your folding city

2010-11-27T10:55:00.000-06:00

i am intensey and you have left. you have packed up your folding city in a cardboard box and closed it with used suspenders.

you found those suspenders in the back of the goodwill where we'd make out.

we liked the smell of must and lost desires and mothballs and despair.

we liked the smell of broke down cars and long cigarette ash hanging on, hanging on.

we'd fall into piles of winter coats. we'd lose ourselves in down and faux-down and fur and faux-fur and ski pants and little moon boots.

it was the little moon boots that made you cry.

it was the little moon boots that made you cry out.

you are a perv with a folding city in a box.

i tried to change you; i tried to reclaim you. i tried to take your folding city and nail it down, make it permanent, make it stay and flourish and trade with other cities and grow some botanical gardens and attract some noodle houses and change the traffic signs from all caps.

you spent your time sifting through others' cast-offs.

you came out of a rack with suspenders held triumphant, aloft.

you wrested your city back from me. that was hot cos we wrestled some and things got parka-peacoat-snowshoe kinky for a sec.

then it was all over and you packed up.

& i will be a little less intensey & needy if you help out this cool new indie press and buy a chapbook... it doesn't even have to be mine cos it's not always all about me...

yours in a tundra,
ryder

i am going to grinderman tonight

2010-11-22T12:55:00.003-06:00

& i will see nick cave.

& i will not worry about other authors' contempt &/or ignorance of me.

& i will not care if i'm not part of a mighty clique of writers.

& i will wear big boots & a small skirt & look hot & all my exes will want me back.

& that is all.

yours,
ryder

p.s. FictionDaily interviews me! Motherfucking me. Thank you Swan and FictionDaily. Mama love you long time.

yo. i am ackering as i write this

2010-11-14T13:12:00.000-06:00

yes yes. climax.

my chap's been born! it's for sales here.

my baby has no father

my baby has no father unless sam pink counts

sam pink won't marry me, so my baby is a bastard

this is what the bastard looks like

i am a single mother now.

if this were the 80s, i'd be held responsible for the ruin of american civilization. some rightwing butplug would make an example of me.

if this were the 80s, i'd def have big shoulder pads and hair and coke dribbling out my right nostril

i would be a bad 80s mama and i'd plop my babies down in front of the tv

my babies would rebel by watching headbanger's ball and dancing like axl right out my door.

bye-bye headbanger babies, bye-bye.

your single mama,
ryder

1: just 1 day til it drops, yes yes y'all

2010-11-13T11:56:00.000-06:00

the final countdown til my chapbook drops.

here's how it's been going down. a question from Sam Pink (interview at the end of my chapbook) and an answer of some of my lines. if you wanna see the real answers to the questions, you gots to buy the chapthingy at Imaginary Friend Press.

Mr. Pink: Can you describe the time in your life surrounding the creation of your chapbook.

Mama: Global climate change erodes the last drawings of my heart, the walls of Lascaux. You think you see a raw outline, you think you can capture Mercedes-Benz ecstasy, little pink babies: I love you all, even you tornado alley, even you Typhoon Mary, even you concubine, even me ennui.

2: bleach, pine sol, pb&j, + mickey rourke?

2010-11-12T18:53:00.000-06:00

‎2 days: Best makeshift condiment for a peanut butter and jelly when you have no jelly: bleach or pine sol

Mildewed bathroom ceiling means success. Hairy toes means bad breath. Bad breath also means success. And riches, don’t forget the riches. & the toes. But, ceiling fans will never make you Mickey Rourke. And bars, well, bars you know...

3: well de la soul says it better than me

2010-11-11T19:38:00.001-06:00

for realsie

Mr. Pink: Have you ever loved anyone, and what was it like.

Mama: be careful of cheap purses/initiations call me

Re: I fill your whole mouth now bring the plum

moonshines

4: not gonna bogart 4 cos someone already called dibs

2010-11-10T20:04:00.000-06:00

Can you describe your emotions while writing.

I’ve signed treaties; I’ve made speeches. He parodies, he says put pen to parchment, he says put your mark here, he says…

you’re my little masochist, he says, there, there.

5: counting down til that chapbooky thing drops...

2010-11-09T16:03:00.000-06:00

5 days until my ho-chapbook, Orpheus on toast, starts selling itself online.

only $7 will get you my poetry + an interview by Mr. Pink and you can then submit your chapbook to IFP cos they are the nice peoples & they wants to see new voices getting published...

i am gonna count down the days with a question from the interview. i am gonna answer that question with a line or two from the book. if you want to see the real answers - if you have any curiosity about me at all or if you even like me or maybe you hate me and need more fuel for that hate, i don't care - buy the book cos it's cheap and good like a hooker w/ a heart of gold.

#5:

When you die, do you live in a small cardboard box in the middle of the moon, or do you get a hammock between two really close, small stars. or is it something else. if something else, please describe.

There’s no lighthouse, now no house:
you dwell in the chutes; you’ll be going down again.

gots some AIH to walk you out...

yours in floozing, ryder

Homegirl! is done motherfuckas! part 2

2010-11-07T20:15:00.000-06:00

Homegirl! is done motherfuckas!

2010-11-07T20:10:00.000-06:00

& i'm celebrating with whiskeys and songs about home...

here is the first one.

drink up, my little babies... & dance dance dance.

release me!

2010-11-06T20:59:00.000-05:00

Orpheus on toast, mama's chapbook, is coming out November 14th. available here. buy it, bitches! cos it's got my poems and it's gots an interview of mama by Sam Pink & cos my editors know how to throw down. yep yep.

sam elliot's mustache and so many other things

2010-11-03T22:32:00.000-05:00

i really want to do a post that does sam elliot's mustache justice. that talks about the rideability of sam's mustache. the sex inducingness of his facial hair. the quivering wet knee jelly of his whiskers...

like you better if you just ride me

but mama's tired right now and mama's been drinking since sometime you don't need to know about.

& mama's got to get through the announcements.

mama's gots to stand up and practice reading the nominees out loud.

mama can't pass out at the podium cos she'll fall over and there'll be no one to catch her cos the trophy girls all weigh about 80 pounds and they'll be lucky if they can move their anorexic skeletons outta the way quick enough and mama'll hit her head and maybe her skirt'll fall off somehow like gregor samsa's mum in the metamorphosis.

mama never wants to be a bug.

mama squashes the bugs she sees in her house. she's gots a deal with the insects: they intrude on her turf, she squashes them. she intrudes on their turf, too motherfucking bad, biotches; she squashes them still.

& this is the time if announcements bore you to close your eyes and think about mustache rides...mmmm Sam motherfuckingElliotyesyesyesyesohmygodyesmustachemamalikesohyesmamayesmustachefuckmemustachefuckme...

1. Just saw the proof of my chapbook Orpheus on toast. Available soon. Maybe sooner than you stop thinking about that mustache.

2. Abjective just took one of my balaclava anarchist stories. Expect it up in December.

3. FictionDaily will be featuring my story, "If I don't leave the house, I won't know I'm in the South" tomorrow 11/04.

4. I am now on twitter as Homegirlrc. Some punk kid accosted me on twitter cos I was calling myself Homegirl. I don't really know what he was saying cos I ignored him cos I don't even really know what twitter is. I'm just trying to get the attention of Sam Elliot's mustache. Sam Elliot's mustache must have an account. Like I said, I don't know what twitter's really for but if twitter could set me up with Sam Elliot's mustache I think that would be reason enough for it to exist.

Seriously.

Thinking bout you, mustache, when i'm cold,
Ryder

i am hiding from the chilluns

2010-10-31T19:49:00.000-05:00

cos i am the mean writer who lives in the house with the shades drawn 24-7 and the boxes and boxes of wine and beer and bourbon and gin bottles on the curb every Wednesday five am punctual so the neighbors don't have too much time to inspect the contents of the recyclables before the big blue truck pulls up and the recycling guy says, damn this bitch sure likes to party.

(when i party i wear my party dress. & when i drink alone i wear nothing but a bra and jeans cos i pretend i'm in an eighties guess commercial & my tits are way way bigger than they really are...)

& that's how neighbors roll down here, they look at your recyclables, i swear, and tally them up cos they's making a list of who's gonna be lifted up in the rapture and who they might be able to ask to water their plants and let the dogs out after the second coming.

they are always planning ahead, these southerners, i swear. they are looking forward to the rapture as THE LONGEST LUNCH HOUR EVER. they love their lunches; they are always pushing their lunch hours minutes then hours then half-days longer and longer...

unlike me, in the planning and the lunching, who needs a new bra cos this shitty midnight blue one i'm wearing right now can't decide if it's black or blue and mama needs commitment from an underwire.

& as for lunch, some days i can take it or leave it. some days i come to fisticuffs with my sandwich bread cos it pretends to be that famous senor someses hand puppet and it says, s'alright? and then the mustard says, s'alright. and then the vegenaise, says, not funny, cos the vegenaise's all pc and uptight.

just like those feminists who hate the ladies who lunch.

i am a feminist cos i want to make as much money as the mens and i likes the mens and i want them to be able to cry if they wants to cos it's their party and i am a feminist who hates the ladies who lunch but i am not uptight. cos mama's got the senor wences wheat bread and she's got the bourbon's just a-singing in her veins.

the bourbon's singing about its special guest appearance here.

taco pie?

& i tried so hard to finish Homegirl! this weekend to enter her in FC2's contest but then there were those parties and mama wore her party dress and her party dress and other things from her closet became her gothprincesssteampunkwarriorgirl costume

cos the last time mama really tried to dress up she went as the high concept walkofshame with a bra hanging from her leather jacket pocket and bedhead and fucked-up make-up and sans panties and she had to explain all evening what she was...

yours in a party dress,
Ryder

sam pink interviews me preview/the principal is yr pal

2010-10-28T19:20:00.000-05:00

Pink: Describe the first day of school for a child that we have together.

Me: Our child will wear a bow in its very thin hair (my side of the family), whether it's a boy or girl. our child will wear second hand garanimals underneath overalls. our child will be afraid to cross the playground alone so we will hide in the bushes and blow small darts tipped in amphetamines at our child as s/he hesitates at the edge. our child will become high from the darts and run across the playground with a cape we didn't know our child had. our child will say something like, i am too cool for this world, and will end up in the principal's office on the first day. we'll have to come talk to the principal and our child. our child'll be gnawing on the leg of the principal's desk wearing only that cape by the time we get there, & you and the principal'll start talking about something like pastrami or tennis, and mama'll definitely need a drinky or three after all this.

1st day tweaking!

yours in dirty martinis,

ryder

you can win books books books

2010-10-28T14:05:00.001-05:00

http://www.robertswartwood.com/hint-fiction/the-ultimate-flash-fiction-package/

peoples bore me

2010-10-24T07:47:00.000-05:00

& i haven't thought about you in a long time. before you were like my fave song when i was young young young and i'd have you stuck in my head all day long and i'd try to catch you on my radio so i could tape you & i'd only get pieces here and there but i could combine those pieces and i did; there was a tape full of these pieces and i would play it over and over and the song became something more than it ever was. and i'd go to bed with the song in my head and i'd wake up with the song in my head and i'd wake up and i'd grown an inch and i'd wake up with cravings for reese's peanut butter cups and m&m's and cool ranch doritos and all sorts of processed shit i never eat any mores not cos my body's a temple or any crap like that but cos i no longer have a sweet tooth and i wonder where it went and where have you gone, too, cos i ain't feeling yas anymore.

now i wake up and i haven't grown any.

now i wake up and there is no one whose name i've forgotten in my bed.

i used to want you in my bed, on my bed, under my bed, on the kitchen counter with spatula spankings, in the shower, in my hallway up against the wall cos we couldn't even get past my door barely.

now mama needs a bloody, maybe some xanex, def some valium, and somethings to cheer herself up.

here is the thing to cheer mama up:
my poem has been nominated by shady side review for Dzanc's Best of the Web. it is the first poem there and that is their new issue.

here is the song Punkboy hears at work when he realizes Homegirl's really really in trouble. he cuts out of his shift & jumps on his fixie to go find her.

(there are boobies at the end of the video. yay boobies!)

Homegirl's in a standoff with only a baby glock against a mercenary with two sig-sauers and a Craig's List witch with two s&ws. i fucking kid you not. i am going all tarantino on homegirl; that is what happens when i'm no longer feeling ya.

yours,
ry

i will bores you with the announcement

2010-10-16T11:21:00.002-05:00

New Scrambler's out & it's their largest issue ever, they say, and this tall girl's delighted to be in it... Check out everyone else, too, cos it's got live breathing peoples like Stephen Tully Dierks, S. J. Bridgins, Christine Fadden, and many many more...

Homegirl! realism is really real, for reals

2010-10-13T19:19:00.000-05:00

I’ve given you dive bars and a hill and a café somewheres but I haven’t given you any local color; I haven’t grounded you in the scene. If you were a realist, you wouldn’t believe me. If you were a realist, you’d hate me, even.

If I were a realist, I’d hate me, but for different reasons; I’d be so bored with myself and my realism, I’d go to one of the corner bars in Miltown and drink and drink and drink until I couldn’t even remember my name and then everything’d become really real and it’d be real and absurd wherever I ended up – a stranger’s bed, a psych ward, the hospital, the gutter, the median, the cop shop, on a bicycle, in space, wherever.

I would see things I wasn’t supposed to see.

Like what the insides of my intestines look like: bright yellow and stringy.

& what your bourgeois dreams look like: bright yellow with stainless steel stringy-ass accessories.

& what the lushes call aurora borealis is really just dawn flashing on dting eyelids.

& what bike sex looks like: ask O’Brien.

& what the normal workday looks like: newspaper print and kitty vomit.

& what life and death means to corporations: Hello, kitty!

& what married couples’ sex lives look like: bad anime karate chops; the climaxes go all pow and kerplunk and widow’s peak.

& what married couples call love: Bill Cosby sucking jello pudding pops.

& what Punkboy calls love: home.

& what Richboy calls love: cruelty.

& what Homegirl calls love:

& Homegirl will fantasize about walking these streets like a noir antihero fucking every attractive guy/girl she meets and leaving a bloody trail down these Miltown sidewalks.

But, I haven’t even described Miltown so you are in an everyplace everywhere howtown.

yours,

meta-ry

wanting the ending & not

2010-10-10T12:41:00.000-05:00

i have been prolonging the ending of Homegirl! i think. i am intense and needy and i will miss her so much. i am prolonging the climax, teasing teasing the words now. tease tease with a little spit. tease tease with a little tweak. tease tease with a tongue tip here & a light finger there.

before i was compelled.

before i was compelled & i ripped those clothes off Homegirl! and i pushed her down on the bed and i rough-tongued and slid all over and around & in her. & i couldn't get enough.

now i do not want it to stop.

it is just like sex & not.

just like fucking & i will be your little sadist. i will torture & propel Homegirl and Punkboy and Richboy and others for you. i will tie them down and their words and thoughts and everything will come out. & their words and thoughts and everything will be little babies crawling crawling and the little babies will cry and giggle and slobber all over.

you will read the babies; you will read the babies in order to put an end to them.

& this has nothing to do with any of it except i never want it to stop either cos it reminds me of babies and sex and Jesus Christ Superstar and whiskey manhattans and bullwhips.

yours in pleather,
ry

new kill author

2010-10-05T14:25:00.000-05:00

here with a supercool popsicle of an intro by xtx

for all you anonymistas...

2010-10-03T12:08:00.000-05:00

let's see...do you want to be punched in the face?

2010-10-02T21:30:00.001-05:00

if so, here are the things to do

if not, you can read on so you know what not to do, or you can go read some things more interestings.

i will number the things sequentially, cos i'm not hipster nuff to pretend like there's no method behind the non-method.

1) be an old biddy. be an old biddy who's behind me in line at a local subdivision of a corporate monolith. be the old biddy that looks at my pile of stuf on the counter and says, everybody's buying socks. and look proud of yourself for this wittyass remark. you've got this look like the minpin right after he shredded my old socks. be the old biddy behind me in line who says to the cashier, everybody's buying socks! this time with an exclamation point. live the old biddy; breathe the old biddy; maybe some day you will be the old biddy.

i will not cos i'm fixing on starting up some mega habits like heroin and opium and restarting others when i'm old so i'll be too fucked up to be a biddy.

be the old biddy who says as i'm walking away with a free pair of running shoes in my bag, to the cashier, you didn't ring up the shoes.

fuck you old biddy fuck you.

here i am feeling like it's my birthday early; here i am feeling like the MAN's just given me a bday present. here i am all happy walking away with new running shoes. old biddy. i bet in your last life you were part of the temperance movement. you wants to take up all the funs. you wants to shred the funs.

you can't stand to see anyone have any funs cos you're old and you wear michael kors knock-off separates and you don't get laid anymore and you don't know what to do with all that pent up tension so you go to church and sit in judgment and pray that no one notices your overbite cos all thru your sad small life you just wanted to be thought pretty. just once.

this is already getting long & yeah, i'm all about stating the obvious...not even to #2, so i'll skip to 5 cos i'm not a hipster but I lie.

5) say you are a poet. say you are a poet. say it. say it.

6) mafia slap me in a bar. wait no, oh wait. that's my m.o. to get punched.

7) tell me a made up story about how you were a dick at the bar and sat in someone else's seat so they'd get pissed off so they'd hit you upside yo head with a highball cos i just told you my mafia slap story, motherfucker, & you always gots to one ups me.

8) everybody's buying socks!

9) youtubing & thought i was gonna see some hardcore anime porn or at least some s&m or at least some 9 1/2 weeks anime allusions to s&m, but all i got was maroon 5 and a montage...

10) here is some hot anime sex

11) now you want to punch me in the face. no? wait til i mafia slap you at the bar.

12) drive a souped up pickup or jeep with that row of lights on top that's made for hunting down fugitives or rape victims and drive that car like the confederate cowboy you are up onto my lawn. drive it up to my bedroom window and shout something like, whooey, or, i'm drunk, or, balls, or, i see cunts, while i'm trying to sleep off the bottle of wine i just drank cos i wanted to pass out early before the confederate cowboys came round and started burning witches and burning bitches and burning burning up my backyard.

13) say you need me. say you need me. say it. say it.

yours,
ry

get these goddamned kids out of my yard

2010-09-29T18:58:00.001-05:00

my sister is a kindergarten teacher; i don't know how she do it.

i am not a kindergarten teacher. the closest i get to chilluns is writing about babies and my babies are always always in peril. they are like the damsel tied to the railroad track but they wear diapers and spit on themselves for fun.

if you don't know, if you haven't figured it out, i am writing a novel called Homegirl! i have written another novel called little pink babies. the only difference between the two is that in the first novel the baby survives.

that is not the only difference. i am a liar.

my pants are not on fire but my jeans got major crotch holes. they are so old and so comfortable and when i walk my neighborhood late at night who's gonna see my stuff except some raccoons, maybe an armadillo, lots of palmettos, those goddamned frogs that are always calling for the sexings and those goddamned generic big bugs that are always chirring chirring.

i walk my neighborhood late at night because the skies here are oh so fucking blue. they are so blue i want to smear them on my eyelids; they are so blue i want to take them all in my mouth and then the weight of the sky would collapse me. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i want to scare the passed out natty light drunk frat boys. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i'm bored. i walk after midnight cos i'm patsy fucking cline. i walk late at night cos the bullets aren't so bad then.

if anyone asks i am a gumshoe. i am down on my luck & the city's all around me.

if anyone asks me i read a novel about a gumshoe in a city where the buildings keep moving around him and the people live and the people die and the murders happen and the buildings breathe.

in out in out, the buildings breathe. they hold their breath all day but at night they come alive.

i have gone looking for this city of breathing buildings, but i can only walk so far and i get distracted by shiny objects in the road. i get distracted by truckers who've seen my stuff and want to take me to a truck stop or just the back of their cab. i get distracted ducking the bullets that come when i go looking for the buildings.

i think you may be in the breathing buildings; i think you may breathe with the buildings. i think you may hang with them in the noir rain and roll squares and tip your hat and look at the holes in your shoes and say, i should quit walking this beat.

but you can't stop cos you got to outwalk the bullets that are looking for you.

you are outwalking my bullets cos my bullets are slow and southern and confused. they've gotten into the apples that fell off the tree, the apples that've been lying underneath the blue blue skies, the apples that haven't tried to swallow the sky but have gotten drunk off that blueblueness. my bullets buzz slowly in fat fuzzy circles.

i cannot remember the name of that novel you are in with the breathing bullets and if you could help i will do my best not to write on the passed out frat boys with sharpies.

unless you want me to.

unless you want me to write your name.

unless you want me to write blue skies and apples.

unless you want me to write love.

yours walking walking,
ry